


The Assistant

by geenajay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean's crippled and hating it!, M/M, Slave Sam, non-related Dean and Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-23 23:45:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 103,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geenajay/pseuds/geenajay
Summary: Dean has been badly hurt in an accident and is all but crippled. Sam is a slave brought to help him while he recovers.Non-related Dean and Sam, therefore although I have used and altered some events from the canon, it most certainly does not follow it!





	1. The Pen

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure where this is going yet, so it might take a while - but I thought that Sam deserved his turn at being the slave!

Sam huddled into himself, not only because he was so cold in his just about completely naked state, but also to try and make himself invisible in the back of the disgusting pen.

So far it hadn’t worked: he had been pulled around by the chain at his neck at the hands of the auction-men at the request of viewers, forcing him to either crawl on his knees or stand as indicated. He was exhausted. And starving. And no matter how many of these things had he been through, he still felt the humiliation of being a nothing. A nobody.

A slave.

He had always been one: he didn’t remember being anything but. He had never known anyone as family, or if he had a last name…or even if the name Sam had been given to him by his birth mother at all, or just his first long forgotten owner.

And he had had many of those. Most violent and abusive and sadistic: in fact… all of them had been, it seemed… since Mistress Ruby.

Sam had loved belonging to her. And he had stupidly dared to think that she had cared for him. She had certainly encouraged him, since he had been brought for her as an eighteenth birthday present by her friends, to think of himself as perhaps worth more than, with hindsight, he ever should have.

Before being hers, he had just been a boy growing up as an unpaid servant on his then owner’s small-holding; learning simple basic skills such as cooking and cleaning or first-aid; running errands and fetching groceries; serving at the table; laughing in the kitchen with the few other slaves; feeling safe in his bed at night. Ignored as an individual, but accepted as a useful part of the household. Treated fairly, he realised too belatedly.

Then the daughter of a visiting friend of the family had taken notice and seen the potential in him, and so he had come into her best friend Mistress Ruby’s ecstatic hands, to serve as a naïve, uneducated in _every_ respect, personal slave.

During his nearly two years of life with her, his whole existence, his whole reason for belonging to _her_ had been focused, with her encouragement, on taking care of himself physically; on working out and exercising constantly to keep himself up to her exacting standards; to stand tall behind her wherever she went, and with her influence he had steadily matured into an imposing presence that towered protectively always one step behind her tiny frame: the perfect accessory for the latest trend of flaunting wealth via the means of a well-fed, cossetted slave.

And she had taught him how to be a good and considerate lover, and that sex could be really good. _Really_ good. Yes, Sam had really loved belonging to his tiny, dark-haired beauty of a mistress. He just couldn’t believe how lucky he was: surely no slave had ever been so lucky. His life was perfect.

Until her attention had been transferred to an extremely wealthy young man who did not want, in _any_ way, to be overshadowed by a mere slave. Especially once they had gotten engaged. The platinum and diamond ring went on her finger, and the cruel metal collar and chains went back around Sam’s neck as he was forced to the nearest auctions and sold on the very next day.

And now he realised that all the effort she had encouraged him to do, working hard in her private gym every day, building up his body for her pleasure, came with a disastrous price. At first he had stood tall in the auctions, encouraging the viewers to notice his sheer size, in both his height and the span across his ripped torso, _sure_ that he would find another owner like she had been, one who would be proud to show him off as a trophy.

But then he slowly… far too slowly… began to realise that _that_ fad was already over: the next one in vogue was to be ever more miniature dogs carried around in baskets. And instead, his strength and impressive form now not only got him noticed as someone who could be worked _hard_ , for far longer than was humane… so much that he had physically collapsed more than once with exhaustion… but also as someone that owners, sometimes women but mostly men, bought because they saw him as a _challenge_.

For his size and body meant that here was someone to _prove_ themselves as masters and mistresses of. To dominate, even if it meant Sam were tied down and whipped to within an inch of consciousness. To break because it made them feel powerful to watch him sobbing and begging for it to end.

To abuse, just because they could.

To rape, until even to Sam, that atrocity now seemed normal.

And, once they had broken their latest ‘plaything’, each in turn had gotten bored with him and so Sam had found himself yet again back in the auction pens, waiting to be sold again. And again. And again.

By now he was under no illusion that his life would ever be anything but as it was now.

At somewhere around thirty years old… getting almost too old as a slave to be of much use to a buyer: the expected life span he had left simply wasn’t worth paying serious money any more… he was still strong and firm through hard, enforced work, although now seriously mal-nourished and lacking enough weight to be healthy. And although the majority of his owners had left his face alone, his lack of clothing meant that potential buyers could clearly see the scars that now covered him: from numerous cigarette burns, to a couple of deformed fingers from them being broken deliberately, to slicing wounds from blades, and whips, and worse…

And so he huddled into himself at the back of this latest pen, hoping that no one would look at him, but also aware that, if nobody did, then there might be an even worse fate yet to come. For he would end up where all the dregs of slaves ended up… in the mines or the factories… for the last few weeks or months of their lives. And in some ways, in fact a _lot_ of ways: Sam would welcome that.

Just for it to all finally be over.

Slowly Sam became aware that someone was watching him where he was slumped. Time, and too-many painful consequences, had taught him that it was ill-advisable to look directly at a would-be owner, but… he really did _not_ like being watched! Eventually he couldn’t resist peeking from beneath his shoulder-length straggling locks…

To see a man standing leaning calmly on the rail that surrounded the dirty pen, studying him with as seemingly little interest as he would have had in a cockroach. But at the same time, Sam somehow felt sure that _nothing_ about him was being missed.

The man was probably about fifty years old, from the country rather than a city by his clothing: tough, used denims, layered shirts, workman’s steel toe-capped boots, baseball cap; stocky figure; groomed moustache and beard; small but kind eyes.

Sam tried to keep quiet, tried to ignore his possible would-be new owner, but the feeling of resentment grew inside him. He wanted him to go away; he wanted him to at least _say_ something. He wanted… to know what the hell he was doing.

Eventually, even though Sam was inwardly quaking as his own audacity…and probable stupidity… he had to break the silence. Because one of them had to. “Enjoying the view?”

The words were muttered, trying to contain the underlying snarl that he really wanted to use. But he didn’t dare turn his head to see the reaction, and despite himself, he braced against a possible blow landing on his bare skin.

He was surprised therefore to hear a snort of definite amusement. The sound caused him to look around and up to meet the amused eyes of his observer. “I thought so.”

Sam could only stare at him: what had he thought? But then the man was leaning over the rail a little so he could talk without them being overheard.

“You look like you’ve been through a lot. But there’s still a stubborn streak in ya: that’s good, it ain’t been beaten out. Not fully. I _need_ stubborn. I need bloody-mindedness. I think that might be you.”

“What?”

The man sighed: his eyes turned sad. “My… friend and his son. Well, the boy’s been more of a son to _me_ than he ever was to John: the bastard thought of him as a soldier, never gave him the slightest bit of love, but Dean loved _him_. He’d have done anything for his dad, given anything… _did_ give everything.

Anyway… they were in a smash. Truck deliberately took them out. They reckon John was killed instantly. Dean was thrown through the window, broke his back. But he still managed to drag himself to try and get his dad out. The car caught fire but he wouldn’t give up trying. They had to physically pull him away but he was already pretty badly burnt…and he watched his old man go up in flames.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sam knew he should feel sorry, but, hell: he had his _own_ problems! And at least this Dean had had a family. And was free!

“Because he’s suffering.” The older man’s voice gave away more than just his pain: there was genuine and deep love there as well. “His ma died that way as well, when he was a kid. He saw _that_ as well. He’s having nightmares every night, though he won’t admit it. He barely sleeps. Flashbacks from the past; from the present; from… the rest of it.

I made him come and stay with me, but he hates it. He hates me having to help him; he hates being how he is; he’s grieving; he’s losing control. If there’s any drink around, he’s drowning himself in it. I’m worried one day he’s going to just end it all. And he deserves better than that. If you knew him, you’d understand: he deserves _better._ ”

“ _And?_ ” Sam couldn’t contain the snarkyness in his voice: was this old man kidding him? What did he want?

He didn’t realise he had spoken that last aloud.

“It’s not what I want: it’s what he _needs!_ ” The tone in the man’s voice tightened just a little and Sam straightened up where he sat instinctively. “I don’t hold with slavery, never have. Despise the very thought of it. Never thought I’d be here…but.”

“But?” The younger man made sure to sound respectful this time: there was something about this man that had suddenly made him decide that it would be better not to get him angry.

“But.” The steel-blue eyes stared down at him. “I can’t watch Dean twenty-four seven. I need help. _He_ needs help. He needs someone to push against, to get angry at. Someone to listen. Someone to be there for him, whether he wants them there or not. And as much as I’m trying, it’s not working.

And I can’t afford to pay for professional help, but it came to me that I could afford a _slave_.”

 _Now_ Sam was listening.

“I’ve been watching you: you’ve certainly been through a lot yourself, I can see that. And yet… I knew when I saw you…there’s anger there. Determination. Defiance. That’s good.

Dean _needs_ defiance. He needs arguing with and ordering around! He might even need beating-down occasionally, some sense being knocked back into him! What he don’t need is prissying around…

So, boy. I’m thinking about buying you. Or trying to. But if I do, then you’ll have to be prepared for him to shout at you, perhaps throw things at you: he might even strike out at you occasionally, I can’t guarantee that he won’t. He’s angry and hurting and… he loved his damn dad just so damned much…

But I _can_ guarantee that mostly you’ll be treated well. You’ll have decent food, somewhere safe to live. And, if you can get through to Dean, then you’ll find that he’s someone that would never let anyone ever hurt you again: seriously, he’d move heaven and hell to protect you. You have no idea!

So, I just want to know if you’re interested. Or if I’m just wasting my time and money by looking at you.”

“You’re…” Sam was incredulous. Surely he was hearing this wrong? “You’re giving me the _choice?_ If I want to come with you or not?” He stared up at the man with disbelief.

“Well, as long as I can afford you as well. I have no idea what slaves cost. But, if I bid… would you be interested?”

The eyes met Sam’s straight on without hesitation, and for some reason, the slave believed what he had just said. After all… why would the man lie? And why ask Sam at all? He would always just do what he was told anyway, he _had_ to: he was only a slave…. Just a nothing.

But he was being given the _choice_.

And somehow that meant more to Sam that he had ever realised it could.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. Please. I’ll watch him for you. I do anything you want. _Please_ …” He knew he was begging, but that was nothing new. “Please.”

“Okay, boy. Let’s just hope you don’t go too expensive.” And the man was straightening up and turning away from the rails. Then he momentarily looked back: “It might help if you can… make yourself as unappealing as possible to everyone else…”

And then he had gone.

Sam blinked a bit and tried to consider what he could have meant. Then…

He had been put in one of the pens at the back: one that had obviously been used to previously hold animals in for the alternate week’s livestock auctions. There had been a definite aroma both in the air _and_ from the straw in the far corner, not helped at _all_ by the hot weather that came with the season, that he had been determined to try and stay well clear of.

But now he deliberately moved towards it, kneeling there to try and get the disgusting scent on him, grimacing a little as he picked a few stalks up in his left hand and started to rub them against his upper body, while hoping that he had no open sores anywhere at the moment that might become infected.

But… he had definitely already done far worse and far more vomit-inducing things in his life. And as he rubbed his long limbs against the smeared straw, Sam found himself hoping… praying… that the man might be actually telling him the truth.

That he might, for the first time in a long time, simply be safe. That was all he wanted.

Just to be _safe_.

Bobby had already registered as a buyer when he had arrived, but had nearly reconsidered his decision to be there, having been disheartened on seeing the state of most of the slaves at the auction: really, the term ‘living-dead’ was a misnomer. Most of them could only be classed as the dead-living! Was this really what a so-called sophisticated society thought of as acceptable?

Dean was going to be so angry at him for doing this.

But right now, Bobby would take that anger if it meant giving the boy something to focus on besides his own grief and self-loathing. He had _even_ nearly decided to just buy someone, _anyone_ , and hope they might become some sort of pet for his surrogate son! At least he would have the dubious satisfaction of knowing that he had gotten at least one slave away of what seemed to be a truly terrible existence…

Really, Bobby found himself wondering after wandering around the viewing pens: which ones, human beings or the supernatural creatures that he hunted, were the _real_ monsters?

But there was something about that young man at the rear of the pens. Something that, even though he had hidden his face and didn’t seem to even dare meet the eye of anyone, had caught Bobby’s attention. He wanted to try and help him.

And if it meant that he could help Dean at the same time, then that would be a win.

Again he mentally ran through how much cash he knew he had in his pockets: he had no idea of the price of slaves. All he could do was hope that he could afford the one he wanted. If not he would just have to get what he could.

He had to control his smirk when the auction finally began and ‘his’ slave was led into the ring, dragged along by the heavy chains attached to that cold-looking heavy collar. Now the lad was standing up, Bobby could see all the scars that covered him, and he felt intense fury that anyone could treat another human being in this way. And he could see how thin he was: he might have been muscled and wiry, but there were too many prominent bones. And for god’s sake, they could have let him have _some_ clothes other than those old and very thin boxers, and probably worn-through sneakers!

But he knew he had picked correctly when the auctioneers couldn’t help but wrinkle their noses and take a step away as the new-acquired aroma of the slave wafted over them. As did many of the bidders at the front of the crowd. Bobby didn’t have to smell it himself to know that his hint had been picked up and acted upon: he had been right, there was an intelligence and speed of thought about this young man that was just begging to be nurtured. _And_ he was holding himself in a hunched stance, and had an obvious ‘long-term’ limp that Bobby hoped had also just been invented.

Good lad.

All Bobby could do now was hope that he could afford him.

And hope that Dean didn’t _kill_ him when he returned to his house with a slave, because he knew his _boy’s_ opinion about them as well..

But to his relief, his chosen lot turned out to be a lot less expensive than he had been dreading: most of the other buyers having definitely been put off by the unappealing appearance in the auction ring, the only exceptions being a couple of local farmers who luckily didn’t want to spend too much either. He hurried to go and pay for the young man so they could be on their way home: he was sure that his new purchase would be just as anxious as he himself was to get out of there.

And the boy desperately needed clothes, food and a good soak in a bath. Although probably not in that order. Which was another good reason for not hanging around the auction pens.

But mostly… Bobby was desperate to get back because of the underlying fear that had been present at the back of his mind ever since he had left his house that morning… and indeed _every_ morning for the last couple of months… that, in his absence, Dean might have chosen _this_ day…

… as the day that he simply gave up on being alive.


	2. Welcome...?

It had been a completely silent journey back to Sioux Falls.

Bobby had gone to collect his new purchase and found the young man waiting for him once more in the foul smelling pen: shivering from lack of clothes even in the height of the South Dakota summer, and feeling nauseous with nerves. Was his new owner going to be what he had been praying for? Or was it going to turn out as just another dashed hope?

“You brought your own collar with you, or do you just want the standard one?”

“What?” Bobby looked blankly at the auctioneer’s assistant.

“Do…you…have…a… _collar_ …with you?” Both Bobby and Sam winced at the insolence in the man’s voice. “Although if I’m having to ask, obviously you don’t. I’ll just lock this standard one on then: once you get your own one, get a licensed blacksmith to remove it.”

Bobby looked around the sparse pen. “Don’t he have nothing to bring with him?”

“He’s a fucking slave! What the fuck do _you_ think? Senile old fool…,” the man was heard to mumble as he finished tightening the heavy, rough-edged cold metal collar around Sam’s neck and walked away from them both: his part in both the proceedings and interest in them in general having come to an end. Bobby stared after him with distaste, but he was in a hurry, and he had to get this poor young man home.

And he was already dreading the reaction when he got there.

“Come on then. I think I have a blanket or somm’t in the back.” He turned and walked away, the paperwork crinkling in his hands, as Sam hastened to obey.

The young man felt his stomach plummet as he saw the open back of the pick-up that Bobby was driving: he was already cold enough. A journey in the wind-exposed cargo area would render him unwell before he had even managed to _begin_ to try and impress his purchaser. _Or_ this boy that he was expected to be looking after.

He was surprised therefore when Bobby reached over into the back and pulled out some, albeit rough, but warm, thick woollen blankets and thrust them in his direction. “Wrap them around ya and get in. You look ready to collapse.”

“But!” Sam couldn’t speak momentarily: his voice was almost a squeak. “In the _cab_ with you?! The way I _stink?!_ ”

“ _Sure_ in the cab with me! You ain’t a dog, boy! And the smell will air out eventually: that was good thinking, boy… _really_ good.”

And with that unaccustomed praise ringing in his ears, Sam climbed in beside him and they set off.

The young man had no idea of even where in the country he was, let alone where they were going, and he was so used to being forced to travel crushed into the backs of freezing cattle trucks, or be expected to crouch in the rear foot-wells of cars, or on more than one occasion had even been locked in the _trunk_ as if of no more importance than a boot bag, that the excitement of being able to sit up and look out of one as it was travelling was almost overwhelming.

For all of about ten minutes.

Then exhaustion and nervous tension, and just plain terror of the unknown to come, overtook him as a mental fatigue that combined perfectly with the luxury of being properly warm for the first time that he could remember for a long while. Despite himself, Sam’s eyes closed and he fell sound asleep, his head bumping uncomfortably and disregarded against the passenger door.

Beside him Bobby glanced across, and couldn’t help but smile at the sight. And resisted the temptation to ring home and check that… _someone_ was still there and able to answer.

Without him even realising he was doing it, his foot pressed the pedal to the floor just a little bit harder…

Sam was embarrassed beyond belief when he stirred to find his new master gently shaking his arm. “We’re here, lad! _Balls!”_

And Bobby was looking out through the truck window past him and then leaping out of his own door in a hurry to race around the front of the pick-up where he almost immediately became hidden behind two stacks of cars.

In fact, Sam realised, as he also hastened to follow and climbed out of the truck, grimacing as he stepped down into a puddle of… something that wasn’t completely water from the oily sheen over it... and the hole in his worn sneaker flooded, that there were a _lot_ of stacks of cars: some whole, some obviously just old bodies, and a lot of pieces of engineered metal that he had no idea what they were. The stacks stretched as far as he was able to see. And on turning around, he realised that behind him was a house: a large, old house that once must have been beautiful, but now looked badly in need of repairs. Lots of repairs.

But to Sam’s eyes, it also looked like it could be a home. Oh god, he hoped so.

And to the side of the house was parked a large van, as well as a long, old-fashioned in style but incredibly smart-even-so, black Impala. Sam himself actually had no _idea_ of what type of car it was, but he had had enough masters who would have _drooled_ over such a beast to appreciate that it was something special.

By this time, his feet had taken him, somewhat groggily, around the corner to follow where the old man had gone. Although he heard the arguing voices _long_ before he had found him.

Bobby was standing to the front right of an old Ford, talking loudly at someone who was out of Sam’s view to the left of the vehicle and hidden from him behind the propped-open bonnet. An open toolbox lay on the ground beside it, and strange parallel marks were in the dirt leading from the direction of the house to beyond where the old man was standing, his hands on his hips and now all but _yelling!_

Sam couldn’t quite work out what the marks could have been caused by, but, on seeing the anger of his new master, sensibly decided just to wait quietly and listen.

“I _told_ you, just stay in the house! Just rest! You’re _supposed_ to be resting, for god’s sake! Why won’t you just do what you’re told: just for _once_ , Dean!”

“All I can _do_ is rest, Bobby! I’ve fucking had enough of it! And this needs fixing: _you_ know that!”

Sam blinked. The voice was so… deep. So gravelly. So thoroughly tired, and done with the world. It _wasn’t_ a _boy’s_ voice.

Although… _he_ had made the assumption that Dean was a boy. The old man… Bobby… had never actually said.  He carried on listening.

“I _know_ it needs fixing! That was going to be my next job: Jonah’s coming to pick it up this evening! But you shouldn’t be doing it! What if you fell? And how long have you been out here? Little and often, the physio’s said. Keep it moving: keep it healing. Have you been out here all _morning?_ ”

“Yup. And it’s nearly done. So bite me!”

“For…“ And Bobby was letting loose a string of curses that made Sam shake where he stood. In his experience, anger was usually followed up by a need to work off some aggression. And his six foot four, solidly built frame had provided the perfect punching bag for more than one previous master. “Three months ago you nearly _died_ , you idgit! You were told you might never walk again! I’m damn glad you’re such an hornery, stubborn son of a bitch and proving them wrong, but you’re overdoing it. The physio’s said…”

“Fuck the physio’s! I’m fine! And this needs to be ready in time or you don’t get paid! Bobby…” the tone of the voice turned a little pleading. “I can _do_ this. It’s something I know _how_ to do. And at least it’s something I can do to help you: it’s not as if I’m any good for anything else now…”

“Don’t talk like that, boy.”

“You know it’s true.” Now the deep voice was calm. Accepting. Terrifying in its acquiescence of worthlessness.

Despite himself, Sam felt sad as he heard it.

“It ain’t true, Dean. You’re trying to do too much, too fast. You all but disintergrated your eleventh thoracic vertebrae! It’s only dumb luck that your spinal cord survived intact. You’ll walk on your own again one day, but it will take _time_. You’ll get full use of your hand and arm again, but it will take _time!_ Just…slow down, will ya’ boy? For me?”

There was a momentary silence.

“Boy?”

“I hate this, Bobby.”

“I know you do, son. Now… let’s get you back in your chair.” Sam frowned as Bobby went to step forward: what did _that_ mean? “Come on, Dean, you need to sit down. I don’t how the hell you’re managing to be standing there… ”

“I’m nearly done here, Bobby.”

“For…” And the man was cussing again. “Goddamn it, boy!”

“I’ve put in the new gasket: all that’s left is to tighten the cylinder head up. Hand me that socket wrench.”

“Dean! Enough!”

“Or you could just _help_ …?”

There was another silence, much longer this time as the two men beyond Sam’s view behind the bonnet obviously tried to stare each other down. It was Bobby who gave in first. He gave a resigned sigh and leant into the engine: “Give me the wrench. What’s the torque setting?”

Even as the talk turned technical and way beyond Sam’s understanding, he was hesitantly creeping forward, trying to see the face of the incredibly deep-voiced Dean. Nervous about being caught looking, he kept his eyes down and found them instead following the strange parallel tracks that Bobby had obviously spotted from the pick-up truck. Curious, he looked to see what could have caused them.

And realised that there was a wheelchair on the other side of the car. An empty wheelchair.

And even as he realised that, Bobby was straightening up with a grunt. “Okay. They’re all tightened. Now… _get yourself back in that chair!”_  

And the other man was muttering but finally obeying. Manoeuvring himself seemingly more by his hands and arm strength than his legs, using his obviously immensely strong shoulder muscles to work his way back across the solidity of the body of the car little by little and physically _willing_ his feet to follow one step at a time.

Sam couldn’t help but step fully around the corner of the car to watch as the man he now knew to be Dean made his way independently back to the wheelchair. And he watched Bobby, and realised that he was obviously itching to go to the other’s assistance but instead was forcing himself to remain still.

Although just as soon as Dean had got near enough to the chair to begin to try and turn himself to sit down in it, then suddenly Bobby was there, catching Dean beneath his armpits with his hands so he could help him to lower himself carefully, and then bending down to physically lift the trembling legs of the other man up onto the footrest.

And Dean _was_ trembling, Sam realised as he got closer. He was outright shaking with the effort of simply trying to stand on his own two feet, and the slave wondered suddenly what it must be like to lose something as basic as the ability to walk. And then he found himself studying the man more closely.

For Dean was _definitely_ a man, even _though_ Bobby referred to him as ‘boy’.

He must have been a few years older than Sam: perhaps mid-thirties; had obviously previously been strong and fit, easily as fit as Sam himself was, perhaps even more so, but now, besides the sudden need for the wheelchair the younger man was noticing his left hand as Dean wiped grease off it with a rag… and the completely missing little finger, and the scars…terrible raised and vivid scarlet in colour, slightly weepy burn scars that appeared to be continuing up his arm; and the stress and pain in his face: an incredibly handsome face, with lines creasing around full pink lips and amazing green eyes.

Eyes that were now focusing on him with a frown: “Who the hell is _that?_ ”

This was addressed to Bobby who turned round with surprise and a sudden shock. He had obviously forgotten about Sam momentarily. Then he had recovered himself with a grunt: “He’s yours.”

“He’s what?”

But Bobby was already walking away from him, moving past Sam without even a glance and returning to the pick-up. Dean was instantly propelling the wheelchair behind him, causing even more marks in the dirt until he came to a halt beside the younger man, looking him up and down with the same intensity as Sam had just done him. “What do you mean: he’s mine?”

Bobby returned with Sam’s paperwork and all but slammed it down onto Dean’s lap. “He’s yours. I know how you feel about slavery: hell, I feel the same way but…”

“You gotta be shitting me.” And Dean was ignoring the papers…and Sam… and wheeling away from both of the others in a rage. “A _slave?_ ”

“Yes. A slave!” And Bobby was yelling at his back. “Someone to help you, to watch you. Not to watch _over_ you. It will make _me_ feel better to know that there’s someone with you. You can get outside more: _work_ on the cars! He’ll be there to fetch you tools that you can’t reach without risking falling… and if you _do_ fall… which you do, Dean, don’t you try and hogwash me no more about all those new bruises you keep getting… he can help! Just… think of him as an assistant. Not a slave.”

Dean turned the chair on a dime and wheeled it right up to Bobby’s knees so he could glare up into his face. “I don’t _need_ an assistant! _Or_ a slave!”

“Yeah, well, too bad!” And Bobby was turning away from him and stomping into the house. “I registered him in your name, so you’ve _got_ one!

So you can just get on with it, and _even_ be a little bit grateful, ya stupid _idgit!!”_


	3. Dean? Meet Sam.

The two men stared after Bobby as the door slammed shut behind him.

“Shit. Something else I’ve got to apologise for.” And Dean was sighing deeply. He absently picked up the paperwork on his lap and quickly scanned through it: “Yup: the bastard’s put me down as your owner. Just fucking terrific.” 

Slowly he started to wheel himself towards the closed back door and then paused to glance back at Sam. “Well, come on kid. You look like you need this damn chair more than I do!”

“I’m not a kid.” For a moment Sam wondered where the snarky response had come from, then realised with horror that it had been from _him!_ Shit, he must be even more tired than he had realised if he couldn’t control his mouth. He had gotten enough beatings over the years because of his attitude: this _really_ wasn’t the way he wanted to start his life with this new master. He almost bit through his lower lip with nerves as he waited warily for the other’s response to his sass.

But Dean only looked him up and down again, and nodded. “No. No, you’re not. But you still look like shit: let’s get indoors.” He motioned for the surprised younger man to follow him and began to rotate the wheels with his hands once more. “So what _is_ your name, anyway?”

“Sam.”

“You gotta be shittin’ me! Did Bobby know that when he bought you?” The younger man stared at his master nervously: what could he have said to cause a reaction like that?

Then Dean had recovered himself and spoke in more normal controlled voice: “Got a surname, Sam?”

“Just Sam.”

“Okay then.” He manoeuvred the chair close enough so he could reach the door handle, did a little bit of fussing and cussing as he sorted out how to hold it open and get himself through the gap at the same time, then led Sam through into the empty kitchen.

The young man stood and looked around, taking in the well-worn but functional cupboards and the solidly built table and chairs. And he raised his eyebrows at the rows of phones hanging on the wall: why were there so many?

And he had never seen as many books in his life as when he peered through into the… whatever the other room was. It had a desk, and a few chairs and a couple of small tables, but they, like _all_ the flat surfaces, were covered in _stacks_ of books: piles of them everywhere, in wobbling, awkward heaps that threatened to collapse from just a look.

From behind him there was a cough, and Dean was motioning for him to sit down while he wheeled himself over to the kitchen sink, undoing his filthy coveralls as he went and shrugging the top half down.

Sam hesitated momentarily, then silently crossed to lean against the far wall, watching Dean closely from under his long bangs. He noticed the deep breath that the older man took before he moved his hands up to tightly grip around the solid edge of the basin and literally _heaved_ himself up out of the chair, taking his weight fully on his shaking arms and tired shoulders momentarily before slowly, carefully, shifting it back onto his legs as if he didn’t trust them to support him.

And he didn’t miss the grimace of pain that flashed across Dean’s face and the sudden shine of moisture in his eyes, before they became expressionless once more.

And then his attention was caught by his master’s left arm, now that he could see it up to the sleeve of the t-shirt he was wearing beneath the coveralls. Or rather, he could see what was left of the skin on it, because what there _had_ been was now instead covered with the raised vivid-red mountains and troughs of the remains of badly burnt living flesh. All charred that is, except from what he couldn’t _help_ but stare at: a raised mark only just visible beneath the edge of the material… that looked almost like a _handprint_ branded into the man’s bicep! And the skin immediately surrounding it was the only part that the fire hadn’t damaged, as if it had been protected from the flames somehow...

Sam stared at it in consternation. Then as he registered the sudden silence, his head jerked back… to meet Dean’s eyes staring up at him. “I…”

The other grunted and returned to trying to get the oil and grease from the car’s engine off his fingers. “How tall _are_ you? No wonder I thought you were a Sasquatch from down there…” he indicated the chair behind him.

“I don’t know.” He really didn’t. “How far does it go?” He caught the flash of green in his direction but there was no response. “The burning, I mean?” Then he was biting his lip as he realised how forward he was being: the man now owned him after all, and even though he was in a wheelchair didn’t mean he couldn’t or wouldn’t use something… _anything_ … as a weapon to beat Sam with. His _previous_ owners certainly had.

Size definitely wasn’t in ratio with violence: _he_ could vouch for that.

“Mostly my hand and arm: my sleeve caught.” The words were muttered finally, but clearly enough. “Enough that I lost a finger: I was lucky not to lose more but… they don’t bend as they should, they don’t do what I _need_ them to do. It caught the left side of my chest a bit. Nothing really, though: they pulled me away before…” Dean stopped speaking abruptly and concentrated on finishing his hands, reaching to pick up the detergent for a last dose to shift the final dregs of dirt… but the shift of weight on his legs was enough to cause a spasm of agony through his back and he dropped the bottle to the floor as he winced.

Sam had picked it up and was offering it back to him before Dean had even managed to swear. His eyebrows shut up in surprise, but he took it back with a nod: “Thanks.”

The younger man smiled and clutched the blankets around him again as they had just nearly slipped from his shoulders, but not before Dean had smelt the aroma the thick woollen covers had been dampening. “Jesus! You been rolling in something?”

Sam flushed with embarrassment and looked down at his crappy old shoes. “It was the master… erm, Mister _Bobby’s_ idea. To try and keep my price down…”

There was a silence. He chewed on his lip again and risked glancing up… to find that Dean had a slight smile on his lips and the green eyes were twinkling with amusement: “Well, al- _right_! Good for you! And neither of us are master or mister’s _anything!_ He’s Bobby and I’m Dean. But you definitely need a shower…or three. You got any clothes under there?”

Sam blushed again and shook his head.

“Any at _all?_ ”

Another shake.

Dean sighed and dried his now almost clean hands off on the towel, before carefully reversing his manoeuvres until he was safely seated back in the wheelchair once again, trying to mask his relief that he had managed it without pain jolting through his back for once.

“Why don’t you use the frame?”

Dean glanced at the corner where the rubber-footed, tiny-wheeled walking-frame that Sam was indicating, had been relegated to being used as a clothes airer. “You’re observant, I’ll give you that. I’m _supposed_ to.” He put on a high-pitched voice: “Keep on with the exercises for your back, but gently does it. Once a day, try and get to your feet and walk, just up and down the hall will do. _Twice_ if you feel up to it!” Then he was snorting with derision: “Those people don’t live in the real world! Or they just deal with office workers who can just _sit_ all day long! I’ve fallen more trying to negotiate _that_ damn thing around in here than I do when I…” His voice faltered and silenced momentarily. “I don’t like doing nutt’n. And I can’t keep living off Bobby: that ain’t fair.”

“Fair don’t mean squat.” And the old man was standing in the doorway, looking at Dean with an intense expression on his face, but Sam wasn’t sure of what. “You can stay here as long as you need: you know that. We’ll get by.”

Dean sighed again and studied the dirt still caught beneath his fingernails: “Sorry I yelled at you just now, Bobby. I don’t know why you put up with me.”

Bobby shrugged and casually wandered across to retrieve a jar of ointment from the refrigerator. “I do it because you’re family. You know that, boy.” As if that explained _everything_.

It probably did.

There was a long silence in the kitchen apart from an embarrassed grunt from the subject of his concern. It was the old man who finally broke it.

“Arm out: it’ll need smothering with this antibiotic cream. You shouldn’t be getting it that _wet!_  Is this all you got left?” as he unscrewed the lid, glanced inside the container and looked at Dean with some irritation. “Ain’t there another one? Why the hell didn’t you say sommat? You’ve got to keep those burns infection-free and as moisturised as possible, you _know_ that! If the skin starts to tighten, you’ll lose even _more_ movement in your hand! For…!”

Another grunt of embarrassment: “That’s what I’m hoping this morning will pay for, Bobby…”

“Goddam it, boy. We’d find the money… _You_ know that. Here…” And he was gently applying the soothing ointment to the damaged skin, paying special consideration to the now cracked and sore fingers, while trying to ignore the way that the green eyes were looking moodily up at him from beneath their long lashes. Once finished, he rinsed his hands and returned the jar to the large refrigerator, pulling out numerous containers while he was there and bringing them over to the table. “You sort _him_ out: I’ll fix sandwiches for you both.”

Dean sighed and began to wheel himself across to help, opening a lower cupboard and removing some plates on route. “I’ll do that. Can you show Sam the bathroom? He _really_ needs a shower…”

 _“Sam?!!”_ And the old man was standing straight up and staring at the younger man: “Shit. I didn’t _know_ , Dean…” then he was recovering himself and continuing in a much calmer tone. “But why don’t _you_ show him where the shower is? He’s _yours_ …”

Dean tried to control his irritation from rising again: “It’s upstairs.”

The old man stared him down: “So?”

“So…” Sam kept his head down as he felt the tension rise in the kitchen, he didn’t like being the subject of it: he would quite happily have preferred to be simply ignored.  “…so… I don’t think I could get upstairs to show him the way at the moment, Bobby.” Dean conceded quietly.

“Because…? _Because…?”_ Bobby wasn’t going to let it go quite yet.

Dean sat fully back in the chair and threw up his arms in surrender. “Because my back hurts like shit, my hand hurts like shit, and because _I_ hurt like shit, okay? I can’t get _up_ those stairs at the moment! _Happy?_ ”

“No! Because you’re doing too much, and you’re being a shittin’ _idgit!_ Don’t you worry about the money, we’ll manage! You’ve gotta concentrate on _you!_ So I mean it… _Rest!_ Or I’ll handcuff you downstairs, don’t you think I won’t! Dang-fool boy’s gonna be the death of me…”

And he was stomping out through the door and motioning to Sam to follow him: “Come on, you! Let’s get that stink off-a ya!” The younger man hastened to obey. “And get your eyes off my liquor cabinet!” Sam glanced back just in time to catch Dean hastily and somewhat guiltily averting his gaze from where he had been hungrily staring through into the living room. “It’s locked and it’s _staying_ locked, and if you bust it open, I’ll _skin_ ya!”

Dean caught Sam’s eye with exasperation and a wry smile, sighed and turned his attention to beginning to prepare the sandwiches.

Sam washed and soaped himself beneath the shower three times until he at least _felt_ cleaner. He just hoped that the aroma of the animals had rinsed away enough with the suds. He felt exhausted, physically and emotionally, and he was _so_ hungry.

But he was well used to being _all_ those by now.

It was with genuine surprise that he drew back the shower curtain to find a couple of soft towels waiting for him in the bathroom, and some actual _clothes!_   He hadn’t heard the door open again, although he was long past the stage of being embarrassed about being seen naked, but he was unsure momentarily if they had really been left for _him!_  

Bobby spared him the worry by calling through the door the moment he heard the water turn off. “Dean’s looked out his biggest stuff for ya. It’s only an old over-shirt and some sweatpants… they’ll probably only come down to your calves… but they’ll do till I can get you some of your own. We’ve found some cans of soup in the cupboard: I’ll tell him to start heating one. You look like you could do with some serious feeding up. Come on down when you’re ready.”

And then he had gone, leaving Sam clutching the big flannel shirt to him as reverently as if it were made of gold thread and with tears prickling in his eyes.

He felt even more tearful when he had tentatively returned down the stairs, bare-footed and damp-tousled-haired, and found what appeared to him to be a mountain of variously filled sandwiches waiting on a plate. He sat where indicated, trying not to stare at the food in front of him, and terrified of taking any in case this was just a trick and these two seemingly genuine men were just finding a novel way of torturing their new toy…

But then a dish full of hot, steaming soup was being put in front of him, with an instruction to help himself… and they were also sitting at the table _with_ him and eating, and Sam tried not to embarrass himself by crying. He hadn’t been allowed to sit at a table since that kitchen long ago: ever since then he had always been made to kneel and be fed from his owner’s hand, or worse, forced to use a bowl on the floor like a dog… or just pick up discarded scraps from the floor. He cringed as he dribbled the soup from the spoon a little, and tried to remember how to hold it steady.

“Don’t rush your food, boy.” Bobby’s voice was as gentle as his eyes as he watched the young man. “Despite what Dean said earlier, we’ve got enough for we need. Only rule here is that you help yourself to whatever, whenever you want. Okay?”

The wide hazel eyes turned on him as if disbelief, but he was already talking again. “When we’re done, I’ll take some measurements and go and get you some clothes while I get this dang fool his meds: it’ll only be basic jeans and shirts… I’ve got your shoe size off those crappy old things you were wearing before. Unless you’re really attached, they can go in the trash as soon as you’ve got new… I’m assuming they’re the right size…?”

Sam didn’t know whether to nod or shake his head: the sneakers had been given to him as cast-offs and they had originally been too tight until they had stretched through sheer wear, but he didn’t want to seem to be complaining…

Bobby watched his hesitation and sighed: “Perhaps you should come with me and try a few things on. Dean? You going to behave yourself here if I leave you?”

He wasn’t perturbed at all by the angry glare the other man gave him. “Okay. So that’s settled: Sam and I are going shopping. Dean is going to take it easy and not feel _guilty_ about it. Take-out for supper! Sam? Anything you want for your room?”

Sam nearly choked on his cheek-full of chicken sandwich. “My… _room?”_

“You’ll be up in the spare room. Don’t let me forget to get you a toothbrush, stuff like that…”

“Just… _my_ room?”

“Yep. Why?”

“I won’t be sleeping with Dean…?”

He wished he could shrink through the floor at the way both the other men stared at him. “Why would you be sleeping with _Dean?_ ”

“No! _No._ ” Then he and Bobby were both staring at Dean’s reaction. “That’s not a… Don’t you worry about _that_ , Sammy. No matter what’s happened before, that ain’t gonna happen here. You’ll be in the room upstairs. On your own. You can have a lock on the door if you’d prefer…”

“Why would he need a lock on his door?” Now both Dean and Sam were staring at _him._ Bobby decided he didn’t _want_ to understand. He grunted and got up from the table. “Come on outside when you’re ready: I’ve got some chores to do. But make sure you finish eating! There ain’t no hurry.”

Even so, Sam felt it necessary to bolt the rest of his plateful down so he wouldn’t get in trouble for keeping the old man waiting. He hesitated over staying to help and clear up, but Dean waved him out with a shrug: “It’s something I can do at least. I’ll put what’s left over back in the fridge. Make sure you help yourself when you come back.”

Sam pulled the crappy old shoes back on… hopefully for the last time ever… and all but ran outside where he stood momentarily trying to see where Bobby had gone. Then he spotted him standing beneath the carport and hastened to join him, approaching from behind where the other man was pacing. He paused as he realised that the man was on his cell: he didn’t want to interrupt but he also didn’t want to be accused of intentionally listening in to a private conversation.

But he couldn’t help over-hearing some of it.

“Yeah, just for a couple of hours… if you could, I’d be grateful. Nah, he tried to sneak them under the table but he took pain killers before _and_ during the meal, he didn’t think I’d notice… he’s overdoing it, but he won’t be told!  I’m worried, Jodie. I was scared about him overdosing intentionally: now he might well do it by accident…

No, he’s still not eating much. I hoped having this distraction might encourage him… what? Yeah, I _did_ do it: I don’t like it either, you should have seen it… and we call this country _civilised_ , the poor bastards… anyway, Dean made a load of sandwiches and encouraged this new’un to eat up… oh, his name’s Sam… yeah, _Sam_ : I didn’t realise but at least Dean don’t seem too worried about it, he’s just miffed at me for buying him full stop… but… he hardly ate even one himself. Probably hoped I wasn’t watching. Just existing on coffee and meds, and _that_ ain’t helping…”

Sam frowned: he himself had been so overwhelmed by all the food that he hadn’t noticed how much his master had had of it… or how little. But Bobby was right: Dean had encouraged _him_ to eat up, but he didn’t actually remember the older man taking much. And he had certainly slipped a couple of tablets into his mouth as he’d sipped at his coffee…

But then Bobby was turning around and seeing him standing there waiting. Sam immediately cast his gaze down to his feet. Shit, he was in _so_ much trouble: what had he been thinking of, standing and listening…

“Anyway, I got to go, Jodie. Sam’s ready: sooner we go, sooner we get back. Just… don’t make it obvious…” And he was shutting down the call and nodding to the young man as he moved towards the van. “Come on then.”

Two hours or so later, Sam was clutching two whole bags of shopping to his chest with disbelief as they drove back to the house. He didn’t want to let go of them in case he woke up and this had all just been an incredible dream. He was actually wearing clothes that fit! Ones that were warm! And boots that were sturdy and comfortable. If this was just a dream, then please god, let him die in his sleep.

He came out of his reverie as he heard Bobby give a satisfied grunt, and realised that they were already back to the house… and that there was now another car parked alongside the black Impala that hadn’t been there before. He followed the old man as he jumped out of the van, still reluctant to relinquish his grip on his new belongings, and followed him to the car port, surprised to see his master sitting in his wheelchair at the workbench repairing an old gasoline-driven lawnmower that was now resting on top of it in numerous pieces.

Leaning against the bench was a dark-haired, cheerful-looking woman, somewhere in her forties, dressed casually, and chatting away to Dean. “Hey, Jodie!” Bobby seemed surprised to see her.

“Hey, Bobby. I hope you don’t mind, but my mower broke. I actually brought it round for _you_ to mend, but your boy said he’d take a look for me. Don’t worry, I helped him lift it up there…”

“He’s supposed to be _resting_ …” But Sam could see a satisfied glint in the old man’s eye.

“I’m fine, Bobby.” Dean grunted. “It’s only dirt got in the fuel. Easily fixed. I’d have thought you’d have been more careful when you filled it, sheriff: almost looks like a clump got thrown _in_ there somehow…” His eyebrows raised with slight accusation as he glanced up at her.

Jodie Mills faltered and flushed a little, but then her attention was caught by Sam: “And who’s this?” Her voice was just that slight bit too loud and shrill as she sought a momentary distraction from being caught out. “Hey, there: it’s good to meet ya. Where ya from? How old are you? Are they treating you okay…?”

Sam was used to being un-noticed. And he certainly _preferred_ to be, as experience had taught the lesson that attention on him usually meant that something unpleasant was imminently to follow. He immediately felt a little nervous, and certainly overwhelmed, at the sudden questions that were coming at him one straight after another.

Instinctively he found himself edging closer to Dean for protection, seeking for once the propriety and bond of ownership and praying that this master might actually provide the sanctuary he had been so desperate for, for so long: inching ever nearer until his long legs and lower half of his body were eventually pressed fully against the arm and side of the wheelchair seated man, grateful for the grounding touch of body contact.

As Jodie fell silent, somewhat abashed at the obvious discomfort that she had unwittingly caused him, Sam glanced down to see the meadow-green eyes looking up at him with surprise… and a certain amount of embarrassment.

But at least Dean took both the hint, _and_ pity: “Sam, have you had a chance to check your room out yet? Why don’t you go and start sorting through all this new stuff? It looks like you’ve bought the store!”

“Have I got too much?” Sam’s relief at not being called out for completely ignoring his master’s personal boundaries, was instantly tainted by the panicked thought that he might be in trouble for something else. “You can take it back! I know I’m not worth wasting money on…”

“No. _No!_ I’m only joking, kid… Sam. I’m just saying… you look good now. And at least that fucking collar’s hidden. But why don’t you go on upstairs, get unpacked. Grab a rest if you need it: you must have had a tiring day. And help yourself to the rest of the stuff in the fridge…”

Sam mentally grabbed the order with both hands, his real ones still being full of bags of purchases, and eagerly followed Bobby into the house. He was incredulous at the sight of the single room: “Is this really for _me?_ ”

“Yup. Dean’s right: don’t feel any obligation to come back down, this must all be a bit much.” And the old man was leaving Sam alone, standing in a daze, staring with disbelief at _his_ bed; _his_ chest of drawers; _his_ wardrobe.

It didn’t take too long to pack the new clothes… _his_ clothes… away, but he felt that he should return downstairs: he didn’t want to get into trouble for being impolite. Sam paused when he got to the door to the kitchen as Bobby and Jodie were in there talking in low voices. “I agree he’s looking tired and thinner, but he’s trying to deal with it, that’s all. But you smothering him isn’t going to help.”

“I’m not _trying_ to smother him, damn it! I’m just scared that he’ll…”

“This is _Dean!_ He wouldn’t, Bobby. He would _never_ do that.”

“How in tarnation can you be so sure, Jodie? After everything…. After _John_ …”

“Because it would break _your_ heart, Bobby Singer! And Dean knows it would. You’re the closest thing he’s got to family. He’s trying to cope: look at him, he’s _trying_ to adapt! He’s gone through so much…”

“Dang it, do ya think I don’t _know_ that?”

“No need to take _my_ head off about it! Give him time, Singer! He’s trying to move on, and yes, he’s probably overdoing it… well, _definitely_ overdoing it… but this is _Dean_. He’s _never_ given up, no matter what, no matter how terrible… He’ll come through this as well… “

There was a silence: Sam hardly dared breathe in case they realised he was eavesdropping on them, but … the _sorrow_ in both their voices as they discussed his new master. He wondered what it must feel like: to know that somebody loves you with such intensity, and to be so genuinely concerned about your well-being. He could only hope that Dean knew how _lucky_ he was.

“I couldn’t bear it if I lost him, Jodie.” Sam could only just hear Bobby’s whisper. “All the people he’s helped… how do I help _him_ , Jodie? How do I get him through this?”

“You give him _time_ , Bobby.” And she was hugging her old friend tightly. “And just be there for him, that’s all either of us can do. I’ve got everyone in town looking out ‘jobs’ for him to do: we’ll drag him back into living. Time he actually had a life of his own anyway, rather than just trailing around after his dad….”

“Amen to _that_ …”

Sam only just heard that last part, although he briefly wondered about the venom suddenly in Bobby’s voice at the mention of Dean’s recently deceased father, because he was already slipping past the open door and heading outside.

He wanted to find Dean, not only because he felt it was important to ingratiate himself with his new master as much as possible: that was, after all, why Bobby had bought him in the first place, but also… he already _liked_ the green-eyed man. And he hoped… oh god, Sam hoped… that Dean liked him as well. Perhaps he might even want to _keep_ him.

Dean was still out in the carport: he had removed the blades from the almost-put-back-together mower that was now lying on its side, and was sharpening them on a grinder, obviously accustomed to and unfazed by the sparks that kept sprinkling onto his lap and the wheelchair. He glanced at Sam through his protective goggles as the younger man approached, but kept his concentration on his work, adjusting the angle expertly in his hands to ensure the perfect sharp edge.

“Looks like you’ve done that before.” Sam commented as he sat as close as he dared to his new owner, while wary of getting struck by the blinding showers of sparks.

Dean grunted in response: “Just a few times.”

They sat in silence until Dean had finished with the machine and moved it out of the way. Careful that he was refitting it the correct way up, he pushed the blades back onto the spindle and reached for the bolt that would secure them. “If I hold it in position, can you put this on?”

Sam hurried to help but, unused to dealing with mechanical objects, fumbled to screw it on correctly. He swore at himself under his breath as Dean cursed out loud and sharply knocked him away  while still trying to hold the two edged blade straight with his stronger right hand. He started to tighten the bolt himself, eyes momentarily watering as he all but forced the damaged fingers on his left one to clench enough to be able to control the small hexagonal-shaped object and turn it clock-wise. “You got it cross-threaded: it would never tighten like that. You gotta start again.”

“I’m sorry.” Sam felt useless, almost tearful: this _wasn’t_ how he wanted to impress his new master.

“No need to be.” But the older man didn’t _seem_ too perturbed. “There: I’ve got it started, now just tighten it up.” He gripped the blade once more with both hands, holding it perfectly straight in its setting with a skill that Sam immediately envied even as he was obeying the instruction. Then, as soon as Dean was satisfied that it was fully secured and that the blade wouldn’t slip, he once again struggled to his feet ready to move the mower off the bench.

Sam was immediately there. “Is that it all done?” as he helped the older man lift it down.

Again he was answered with a grunt: “Just got to replace the spark plug and refill it with clean fuel, Should be fine. Can you get me that can from the shelf over there? The red one.”

“Is your hand alright? Your fingers…” And indeed, the rucked and cracked burnt skin on Dean’s left hand was now outright bleeding, a watery red ooze, from his efforts to bend his fingers fully.

“S’fine.”

Jodie hurried to join them both as soon as she heard the mower’s engine catch and start up, chugging as smoothly as it had the day it had left the store: “Aw, you fixed it. I knew you would! How much do I owe you, boy?”

“Sort it out with Bobby, sheriff.” And he was wheeling himself back across to the house, exhaustion showing in every inch of his tired and sore body.

Jodie glanced at Sam: “Well? What are you waiting for?”

He took the hint and followed Dean indoors, finding him once again cleaning his hands at the sink, but this time reaching up from his seated position to do it. And he was definitely favouring his left hand, hardly able to bare touching the tender, damaged skin.

“Can I help in any way?”

Sam was ignored momentarily.

“I’d like to help, if I can, master. Please.”

“Just pass me what’s left of that ointment. And I’m not ‘master’.”

Sam opened the fridge and saw the jar indicated. But he refused to hand it over. “Let me.” He couldn’t help himself from shaking a little at the angry glare he received for his defiance, but he stood his ground. “I can help you apply it. _Please_ , master.”

He readied himself for something to be hurled in his direction… or a blow of some sort… or anything that was going to hurt… a lot. But Dean just gazed at him steadily for a long, silent moment… and then nodded, sitting back in his chair as he dried his hands fully, and held his left hand and arm out for Sam to gently apply the soothing cream.

By this time, Bobby was re-entering the kitchen with a bucket of take-out chicken and fries that he had just been to fetch, followed by the sheriff who was carrying the six-pack of beer that he had also bought. And some more antibiotic ointment and a couple of bags of groceries. And a couple of pies.

Neither could repress their smiles at the sight of the two younger men, but they quickly faded as Dean glanced at both of them and turned away without interest: “I’m exhausted. Sorry, I think I’m going on to bed.”

“It’s only early! Not even eight o’clock! At least have some food!”

“I’m done in. Seriously, Bobby: I am. You don’t need to think you have to follow me, Sam: stay there and eat. And there’s a TV in the other room you can watch, or if you like books… well, we’ve got lots of _those!_ ”

He paused at the lack of response from the younger man even as he nearly got to the door: “You _can_ … _Read?_ ”

Sam bit the already bloodied inside of his lip again: another black mark against him. “No. Well…I learnt a little when I was young, the family I was with then taught me… well, they said they’d try. I know some numbers ‘cos at least then I could help them count the stock. But… I haven’t been allowed anywhere near anything like a book for a long time: I’ve all but forgotten… I’m sorry.” He looked down at his new boots, reflecting that they… and he… would be being returned tomorrow as un-suitable.

There was a momentary silence. It felt almost as if both Bobby and Jodie wanted to jump in and speak… but were holding themselves back with anticipation…

 “I’ll teach you. We’ll have a go tomorrow.” And Dean was wheeling himself from the room without looking back…

… leaving Sam almost in tears of mixed relief and joy behind him.

Was he _really_ going to be allowed to learn to _read?_

 


	4. The First Night

Sam excused himself from the kitchen as soon as he could after Dean had gone. The looks of consternation and outright concern on the faces of the older couple made him uncomfortable… and sad for them.

But he had to admit, his master _had_ looked really exhausted. As well as in a lot of pain.

Bobby had recovered himself enough to press a plate of fried chicken and fries into Sam’s hand, with an instruction to help himself to more if he wanted, and Sam had gratefully disappeared up to his… _his!_... room, wondering where Dean had gone.

Stress from the long tiring day, and comfort from the first full stomach that he had had since… _ever_ , probably… and the warmth of having actual covers… and an actual _bed_ … took him quickly into sleep despite the still relatively early hour of the night. He didn’t hear Jodie quietly leave: he didn’t hear Bobby come up the stairs with heavy, weary foot-treads. Sam slept the sleep of the dead…

….exhausted.

He awoke a few hours later and lay bewildered momentarily as to where he was, blinded by the almost pitch-black darkness of the night that surrounded the secluded house, and the unfamiliarity of actually being alone in a bedroom without being held down on the bed or kicked into the corner on the floor.

Sam didn’t like it.

It didn’t feel right: he didn’t feel _safe_.

Someone might come in. Sam had spent so many years, months, days, hours, minutes, being beaten, or kicked around, or _worse_ : he had spent so long just _praying_ to be left alone… and now that he had been…

He didn’t like it.

It made him nervous: he felt himself shaking uncontrollably in anticipation of what might happen. Of what his master might do…

What if Dean came in? What if his new owner came in and expected him to…

His heart-rate started to speed up. _Too_ fast. He began to find it hard to get oxygen into his lungs…

But Dean had said that he wouldn’t. His new master had told him that he would be _safe_ here. And so far he hadn’t lied…

So far. 

Sam had to get out of that room. He didn’t like being alone in that room.

He could hardly _breathe_ : he was starting to gasp for air….

He was going to _die_ in that room.

Alone.

He could go and find his master…

But what if he got in trouble? What if he was supposed to stay in there all night? His master might be angry if he left it. Perhaps Dean had wanted Sam to stay in there just to keep himself from being tempted by his new slave…

Although… his master was disgusted at the thought of being with him in _that_ way… he had certainly reacted against Sam’s mention of it earlier…

When he had said that Sam would be _safe_ here.

And, so far, Dean hadn’t lied to Sam. Neither had Bobby.

And Dean and Bobby had _both_ told him that he could help himself to what he wanted from the refrigerator…

And… actually… as his heart-rate started to slow a little, and his gasps for breath lessened slightly… Sam realised that he was really _thirsty_. Bobby had thrust a bottle of beer at him along with the food but Sam had never drunk a drop of alcohol in his life. He really needed a drink of water. Perhaps even a glass of milk, if he thought he could dare…

His master had told him he could help himself. _And_ Bobby had. But what if they were tricking him, and would call him fetching some water for himself as stealing, and punish him for being a thief…?

Sam knew _all_ about _punishments_ …

But… so far Dean hadn’t lied to him. Nor had the old man. And they had bought him _clothes_ , and they’d said he be left alone in his room, and he had been… so far.

Perhaps he dare try…

Perhaps he _should_ try.

And either nothing would happen… or he would be in trouble. Which would mean yet another beating, but Sam was used to _those_. And at least he would know where he _stood_ with Dean… which would be to tread as carefully as he had always had to do with all his other owners...

His mind made up, Sam let himself quietly out of his bedroom and slipped down the dark stairwell, not wanting to risk putting a light on and disturbing anyone else.

Just in case.

His bare feet made no noise on the worn carpet as he padded towards the kitchen, heading for the refrigerator.

It was only as he had stepped into the room that he realised he _wasn’t_ alone.

Sam nearly pissed himself in terror as his eyes focused fully in the near-darkness, and he saw Dean sitting silently at the table, slumped in his wheelchair, a glass full of liquid in his right hand.

“I… I…” The younger man didn’t know what to say.

Shit: it _had_ been a trap. And _he_ had blundered straight _into_ it. All he could do was wait for Dean to start doing… whatever he was going to do to him by way of a punishment. He began to tremble with fear once more at what was about to happen…

“Can’t sleep?” His master didn’t sound angry at all. “Get yourself a drink of something. Or I think there’s some hot chocolate in the cupboard if you want.”

“I…” Sam felt that his legs were going to give way beneath him. “You’re not _mad?_ ”

“Why would I be mad?” The green of his eyes was so bright that Sam could see the colour even in the near-gloom as he stared across, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “I told you, you can help yourself. You look like you need some serious feeding-up. The sandwiches are in a sealed container on the second shelf. Or there’s probably some chicken left: have a look.”

Sam stared at him in amazement, then all but obeyed as an automaton would have, hardly aware of his own legs moving him across the room so he could open the fridge as if in a dream and see the food as described. He felt so ashamed for having doubted his new master…

He felt so _stupid_ for how he had behaved after waking up.

“Would _you_ like some?”

“Nah, I’m good.” And Dean took a sip of his drink: an amber-coloured drink that had a very strong aroma.

“Bobby’s worried about you. He thinks you should eat more.”

Another sip. “I know he is.”

“He’s going to be mad that you broke into his liquor cabinet!”

Sam could have bitten his tongue out as soon as he had said that: what the hell was _wrong_ with him? Was he _really_ trying to piss Dean off? He was relieved when the other actually smiled momentarily, the lift of the lips discernible in the darkened room: “I got my own stash hidden. And… Bobby… probably _knows_ , the old git: he don’t miss much.”

There was a long pause. Sam didn’t know how to respond, so he settled for retrieving the container of sandwiches and a carton of milk, and brought them over to sit at the table with his master. “Can I get you anything?”

Dean didn’t bother to reply with words, a simple shake of his head gave his response, and then he was continuing with his drink.

“Couldn’t you sleep either?”

The older man shook his head once more, his eyes suddenly seeming to shine like two pools of the greenest tropical seas beneath the moonlight. “I managed to for a couple of hours. But then…”

“Then?”

“Then the dreams take over.”

Sam didn’t understand. But he could see that Dean didn’t want to talk. And… why the hell did he have to? He certainly didn’t to _Sam_. He didn’t have to explain _anything_ to just a _slave_.

So Sam just sat at the table in the darkness and ate some more of the sandwiches, and risked helping himself to a drink of milk.

And Dean just sat with him in silence and finished his whisky.

Then, gradually Sam became aware that Dean was staring out of the window, his face turned towards the sky. Carefully he twisted in his seat to see…

“It’s such a clear night.” The suddenness of his master’s deep voice in the darkness made him start with surprise. “Too clear to be seeing it from indoors…”

And Dean was beginning to propel himself towards the back door. “You go back on up to bed, Sam. See you later, and we’ll start that reading…” By now he was unlocking and opening the door, and working the chair through the gap, his eyes seemingly unhindered at all by the gloom, and causing only the slightest of thumps, and a muffled curse, as it hit against the frame. “Good night.”

Then he was out of the house and gone.

Sam sat by himself, momentarily at a loss of what to do. Dean had just basically ordered him to go back upstairs and would be angry if he disobeyed.

_But._

_Bobby_ had told him when he had bought him that he was there to look after Dean, even if it meant going against him… and _he_ would be angry if Sam disobeyed.

Besides…where had Dean gone in the darkness? What if he was drunk… although he had _seemed_ sober enough? What if something happened? Wasn’t he worried about the dark? What if he caught the chair on something in the scrapyard and fell? What if he did something even worse to himself: there were lots of sharp and heavy metal objects out there.

He would need help.

He would need _Sam_.

And it was nothing to do with Sam not wanting to go back to that room alone, nothing at all.

The young man was on his feet and out of the door following Dean before he had realised. He didn’t even know where to look for a moment, but logic told him that the wheelchair bound man couldn’t have got between the tighter stacks of cars without making a certain amount of noise… and besides… he had been looking at something through the kitchen window, even though Sam hadn’t been sure what it was.

He began to circle the house, still bare-footed and grateful that it was a warm, dry night, hoping to catch a trace of the chair’s tracks in the dirt as he went.

But in the end, he didn’t need to. As he rounded the corner and came to the front of the house, his eyes were drawn to the darker silhouette of the gleaming old-style black car that he had noticed immediately on arriving at Bobby’s the previous day. And to Dean, sitting silently in his wheelchair just staring at it.

Sam watched and waited as the older man obviously seemed to be deep in thought. But then Dean was moving himself to be as close to where the bonnet met the main body of the Impala as he could, and physically pulled himself to a standing position beside it: his hands as gentle and caressing on the solid, cool metal as they would be on a lover.

Sam couldn’t work out what his master was trying to do: why would he want to be standing beside this old car in the middle of the night? His question was answered by Dean suddenly twisting a little where he stood, to lean with his back against the car, and pushing with his legs and pulling with his arms until he was up on the bonnet, manoeuvring himself awkwardly on his backside to try and get himself leaning against the windscreen.

He nearly made it unscathed, but a slight slip of his right foot against the metal caused a spasm of pain through his damaged back that threw Dean off balance just enough that he started to fall sideways, and _off_ the Impala. Desperately he flung out his arms to try and stabilise himself, but he was already too far over. All he could do was brace himself for the agony that would jar up his spine when he hit the ground…

But he never did. Because suddenly, to his surprise, he found himself caught up in a pair of strong arms.

Sam had run forward as soon as he saw his master fall, heedless of the soles of his feet pounding against the cold, hard dirt. All that had mattered was getting to Dean in time to stop him from getting hurt.

They stared at each other in surprise for a moment. “Thanks.” It was an acknowledgement, mumbled but clear enough.

Sam smiled and shrugged, still nervous about being in trouble for his disobedience despite the sudden turn of events. Carefully he put Dean back up onto the bonnet and helped the man push himself back until he was resting securely this time, his back against the windscreen. “Thanks.” This time it was merely an embarrassed grunt.

Again Sam hesitated, unsure of what to do. Then Dean was patting his hand on the empty half of the bonnet next to him: “She’ll take the weight of us both.”

The younger man quickly moved to sit up beside him. “What sort of car is it?”

“She’s an Impala.”

“She?”

Dean rubbed his hand lovingly over the paintwork. “She. My Baby.” He snorted wryly: “My _Home!_ Only one I’ve ever known. _And_ my bed more times than I can remember. I haven’t been able to drive her since the… but at least we weren’t in her that night. Dad’s truck was totalled: nothing was left. At least _She’s_ okay…”

Sam didn’t even try to pretend that he understood, but he could hear the emotion in Dean’s voice. He could feel the older man’s extreme sadness… he almost imagined that he could _see_ it as a palpable aura that hung around his master. He _almost_ reached to cover the damaged fingers with his own… but thought better of it in case Dean got angry.

“Why did you come out here?”

There was a long silence and he wished he hadn’t opened his mouth. Then: “I missed her. And I missed… _that_.” Dean gestured with his hand to point up into the night sky and Sam followed the motion, looking up above where they both now sat to see…

Stars.

Hundreds of them. _Thousands_ of them. Clearer than he could ever have imagined. Sam had rarely seen them before: he had certainly never had a chance to just sit and…observe… But there they were. Lighting the darkness of the night sky in a fantastic display of millions of tiny, shimmering, shining perfect diamonds.

Dean was by now leaning back against the windscreen just relaxing and watching, and Sam found himself copying… just breathing in the clear country air of a warm summer night, and drinking in the sight of the universe around them. It was _incredible_.

He said as much, and Dean grunted in agreement. And then they both just sat together in silence and watched the stars. And Sam had never felt such peace… or such companionship… in his whole life.

And then it got even better.

Dean nudged him and pointed out a shooting star as it flashed across the sky. Sam felt almost childish: he was so excited, even giddy, at the sight. He almost began to get embarrassed, but a glance at his master only to find that Dean was watching his response with a genuine smile caused a warm glow to start in his chest instead, and he settled back against the windscreen once more to keep watching the night sky.

And then there were more. A dozen, maybe even twenty in total, burning brightly for just a few seconds each, leaving images of their trails briefly in the memories of the avid watchers. And every time the two men thought that was it, another would suddenly hurtle across the star-lit arena, with both of their eyes following the track until it was gone.

Eventually though, the small meteor shower seemed to have finally passed as none had been seen for a long time, and as his excitement and awe slowly waned, Sam suddenly realised that he was shivering with cold. As dawn got ever closer, the warm night was transforming into a decidedly chilly one, and he was outside in it wearing just a t-shirt, loose soft sleeping pants, and nothing else.

He immediately turned to Dean, to ask his master if he was ready to return inside… only to realise that the older man was sound asleep beside him, resting comfortably atop his beloved car albeit with his arms now huddled around him, his hands tucked beneath each of the opposite armpits of his plaid shirt for warmth.

Sam hesitated to disturb him. But at the same time he was also getting really cold. And he was worried about his master catching a chill on top of all the other physical problems he had. He slipped carefully off the bonnet and quietly checked the doors of the car to see if they were unlocked, wondering if perhaps he could lift Dean into the rear seat without waking him…

But then, as one door opened and the interior light came on and almost blinded him momentarily, he noticed the folded blanket in the back… of course: Dean had said he had slept in the car before now, he would be bound to have something handy to use. Sam picked it up to shake it out and, after gently closing the door again, hurried back to the front of the car.

Carefully he tucked one edge of the thick blanket beneath the body of the sleeping man, and then, after a momentary hesitation, he gently and carefully slid himself back onto the bonnet beside Dean, lying close enough this time for the two of them to be touching all the way down.

Sam would have liked to have pulled his master fully into his arms to keep him warm, but he didn’t want to risk hurting the man’s damaged back in any way, so he had to settle for placing his own long body as much over Dean’s as possible before pulling the rest of the blanket over himself as well, wrapping them both in it as tightly as if in a cocoon.

Then he lay as comfortably as he could get, intending to just watch over his new master while he slept… but the joint warmth, and shared body contact of the two of them, was irresistible. Especially when Dean shifted slightly in his sleep and slid his arm around Sam’s waist, probably trying to get more comfortable but with the effect of pulling the younger man even closer to him.

Somehow it wasn’t threatening. Somehow, Sam felt assured by it: as if he were being brought under the protection of his new master...

Soon Sam was also snoring soundly, lying with his body protectively covering Dean’s, their faces resting close enough together to breathe mutual air, while above them the sky gradually altered from the pitch black of the depth of night and slowly started to dull, in preparation for the light of the approaching dawn that signalled the beginning of the brand new day.

 


	5. The Simple Joy of Learning

Bobby found them like that there the next morning, in a slight panic as to where both his young charges had got to. He was greatly relieved to see them, as well as slightly amused and somewhat perplexed as to why they were there, but… Dean was actually _sleeping_ , and that was more important than any explanation.

Sam stirred as soon as his unconsciousness became aware that somebody was observing him: it was a necessary survival skill obtained by every single slave almost immediately. But before he could move, he felt a gentle hand encircle his arm and a deep growly whisper right into his ear: “You okay to let him sleep?”

He recognised the old man’s voice and nodded.

“Okay then. Just stay there. Would you like a coffee?”

Again Sam nodded, this time with great eagerness: he was going to be allowed to have _coffee?!_ He heard Bobby’s steps fade away on the hard dirt, then complete silence for a few minutes apart from the cheering chirping of birds in the few trees around them, and finally soft footpads as the man returned.

Sam carefully freed himself from the tight blanket enough to sit up slightly against the windscreen while trying not to disturb Dean who somehow he now had both his arms tightly wrapped around, he wasn’t quite sure when he had done _that_ , and took the offered mug of the steaming hot delicious beverage. _And_ the creamer that Bobby had also bought on the tray, and two whole spoonfuls of _sugar!_ Then the old man sat beside the Impala in the discarded wheelchair and drank his own coffee while they both waited for Dean to wake up.

He slept on for nearly a whole hour before suddenly coming awake. Immediately he was trying to sit up fully, confused as to where he was and as to why he was all but lying in someone’s arms… Then as he realised it was _Sam’s_ arms, he was trying to disentangle himself from the blanket and jump down from the bonnet.

But his back wouldn’t let him. Instead he arched in pain as a spasm of agony tore through him at the sudden movement, and he all but fell off the car again. Only Sam’s quick reactions once more saved him, but the young man was disappointed when Dean, once deposited safely back in his wheelchair via some unrequested and definitely un _wanted_ assistance from Bobby, swore at them both fiercely and headed angrily into the house, his shoulders tense from humiliation and frustrated rage at himself.

“Don’t you take that personal now, Sam. You did good. He’s just hurtin’, that’s all.”

Sam nodded, his eyes burning with unshed tears. He had hoped… oh _god_ , he had hoped… that Dean would like him, and might actually want to keep him. It had certainly seemed that way the previous night: _that_ was already in his memory as the best few hours that Sam had ever had in his entire life.

Miserably he followed the old man back indoors, scuffing his sore and stiff feet through the dirt as he went. Bobby glanced down and cussed: “I should-a brought you out your boots. I’m sorry, boy.”

He hustled Sam indoors and sent him into the downstairs restroom to wash the worst of the dirt off: “Looks like Dean’s managed to get himself upstairs at least: the chair’s at the base of them. He’ll behave himself better after a shower. Don’t you worry, Sam. He’s a good man… the best there is… he didn’t mean nuttin’. I’ll fetch you some warm clothes to put on.”

Sam did feel better after splashing the warm water over himself. Especially once he had put on the denims and thick socks that Bobby had left for him outside the door with a call of “when you’re ready, you can come and lay the table,” and had run upstairs himself to fetch the thick warm shirt that Dean had given him the day before, pulling it on and already doing the buttons up as he came back down.

He hesitated momentarily when getting the cutlery for breakfast: should he be getting enough out for two people… or three? “Lay for all of us, Sam. You’re family now.”

Tears pricked at his eyes again. Especially when the wonderful aroma of freshly cooking bacon and eggs hit his nostrils: he had only ever been allowed to taste them once, as a Christmas treat, back with his original owners at the smallholding, but the fragrance was still one of his favourite things in the whole world. Was he really going to be allowed to have some…?

Then both he and Bobby were listening as soft but short and abrupt steps were heard slowly coming down the stairs. Sam moved to go and help his master but Bobby waved him back: “He’s got to do this, boy. I know how hard it is to have to watch him hurt, but he’s got to do this on his own.”

Sam wavered a moment, trying to obey the man and wait… but then his genuine concern for Dean took him out of the kitchen anyway and towards the stairwell. Bobby watched him go with a satisfied smirk on his face.

Dean was already over halfway down when the younger man got there, clinging to the rails and working his way down each step one at a time, adjusting his weight carefully but precisely, smelling really good from his shower, his hair damp and sticking up. The green eyes flashed briefly in Sam’s direction then their focus returned to each individual movement of his bare feet.

“Thanks.” It was almost an inaudible mutter. “Thanks for looking after me last night. _And_ this morning. I didn’t mean to shout at you, kid. I’m sorry. I just…” His words tailed off but it didn’t matter: Sam was already smiling up at him in open relief.

He started to move up the stairs but Dean waved him back: “If you could just hold the chair steady: that would be a help. And I _am_ sorry, Sam. You didn’t deserve what I called you…

…Nor you, Bobby,” as he finally got himself back down to the ground floor and let Sam help him into the wheelchair and manoeuvre it into the kitchen. “Sorry for how I behaved earlier…”

“No need. Ya hungry?” And the subject was already forgotten as Bobby plated up the bacon and eggs, and brought them over to the table along with hot toast and steaming hot mugs of fresh coffee. “So… ya actually gonna _rest_ today?”

Dean sighed around his mouthful of bacon. “Yeah. I guess. Did Jonah come for that Ford yet?”

“He called last night: said he’d be round this afternoon. He was really thrilled when I told him _you’d_ fixed it, said it’d be a proper job done then, the cheeky son of a… “

“Any more jobs on that I can do, Bobby? _Please_.”

There was a pause while the old man decided: “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“On condition… that _Sam_ be with you as your assistant: that’s what I _bought_ him for! He can help you, and watch out for you, and make sure you don’t take too many of these!” He was holding the container of pills out as he spoke: a pot that had a far more noticeable rattle that morning as he shook it than it had done the day before, due to there being considerably less contents inside it. “How many of these in tarnation did you take yesterday? You’ll be overdosing if you’re not careful! Ya gotta be careful, Dean: these ain’t _sweets!_ ”

“I know, Bobby. That’s why I didn’t take any more last night, even when the pain woke me…”

“Well, you don’t then go and mix’em with alcohol, ya _idgit!_ I tell ya: I find your stash and it’s down the drain!”

“Bobbeee….” The deep voice impossibly went lower and turned a little pleading, albeit there was a small smile on his lips.

Despite himself the old man had to laugh: it had been a long time since Dean had even come _close_ to smiling, although he knew not to say that out loud. “Just… slow down, boy. It’ll come. That’s what the doctors said: that’s what the physio’s said. You just can’t expect it all at once…

Now.” And he was unscrewing the lid on the container. “Two now: two later as per the _instructions_ … And don’t forget that ointment on your arm: it’ll help keep that skin from drying out; help it to heal. You ain’t alone in this, boy. You never _have_ been.”

Dean stared at the table, somewhat embarrassed, but held out his hand for the pain-killers before swigging them down with the remains of his cooling coffee.

“So… are ya going to take it _easy_ today?”

“Can’t get in trouble teaching Sam to read, can I? _What?_ Did you think I forgot?” He asked as the younger man choked on his last piece of bacon with excitement and went red in the face as he tried to clear it from his throat.

Bobby helpfully thumped him on his back: “You okay, kid?”

Sam gratefully swallowed and gasped for breath: “You… you _mean_ it?” He stared at Dean with the widest eyes that either of the other men had ever seen.

The green eyes met his with genuine confusion: “I said I would, didn’t I? We’ll start as soon as the table’s cleared.”

Sam hurried to finish his breakfast.

While the younger man was helping Bobby clear up, Dean propelled himself through to the living room and pulled out his laptop. “There must be something in here we can use. Would you have ever used one of _these_ either?”

“No.” Sam had all but run through the door to join him in his eagerness to learn, but now paused, ashamed to admit his lack of knowledge in… well… _everything! “_ I served; I obeyed; I did what I got told or I got punished: I’ve never been allowed to so much as _touch_ a computer. I… it… I know how to work until I collapse from pain or exhaustion. And I know how not to even _bother_ to scream when I’m being raped.”

He hadn’t meant to say that last part, he didn’t know why he had. He felt his face flush in humiliation, and heard Bobby, who had followed him through the door, gasp and cuss beneath his breath in disgust. But Dean just nodded grimly. “Like I said: you needn’t be afraid of that happening _here_. So! Let’s see what we can get this thing to do.”

He fired the machine up and began to type rapidly on the keys. Sam hastily cleared the nearest chair of all the books balanced on it and sat to watch, marvelling at both the images flashing up and being manipulated around the screen, and the skill and easy expertise that his wonderful new master was showing as he used it, even _with_ his damaged fingers. He _so_ wished that he could be like that.

“You will. With practice.” Sam stared at Dean, and suddenly realised that he must have said that last bit aloud. Well, he _hoped_ it had just been the last bit. Dean carried on talking, seemingly without noticing his concern. “Look at this: numerous ‘how to’s’ that all involve buying an aid to learn to read. But if you can read them enough to know where to get them from, then why would you need to buy them, huh?

Hold on: this any better? Uh, no good: you have to sign up with their website. _And_ that one. How about ‘learning to read’ books?

That’s more like it… Sam: I’m afraid we’re going to have to start with kid’s books, but it’ll be more about the learning than the story, okay?”

He grinned at Sam suddenly: a genuine, open, charming, incredibly sexy smile that made the younger man blush despite himself and immediately want to see on his master’s face again.

“Okay. Oh, thanks, Bobby,” as Dean was handed another mug of coffee by the older man, “Right, Sam. We’ll work this out together: the two of us, okay?

Every letter makes its own sound, some letters even have two sounds, there’s twenty-six of them to learn and recognise. I know that sounds difficult, but, like everything, with practice it’ll get easier. Eventually, it’ll start to come naturally.”

Bobby muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “a bit like learning to walk again,” as he left the room. Dean glared at his back as it disappeared from view around the corner, but then returned his attention to Sam. “Okay. Baby steps.”

They worked together all morning. Sam was amazed at how patient Dean was with him, and how he tried to explain everything as simply as possible without even _once_ sounding like he was talking down to Sam, _and_ he encouraged him to start to use the computer himself... allowing the slave to use his _master’s_ property!

For the first time in his life, the slave felt that he _existed_ , just like a ‘real’ person did, and it was the most incredible feeling ever.

And for his part, Dean was amazed at how quickly Sam was mentally picking everything up… more than that: he was as eager to learn as a puppy was to go for a first explorative walk.

The younger man was obviously intelligent: given different circumstances, and some schooling, he could really have made something of himself. Dean _hated_ the slave system: he _despised_ it. And Sam talking about being raped as if it had been a normal event… which, Dean feared  it probably _had_ been… was doing nothing to alter his opinion.

He made a mental note to look into getting some self-education books on as many different subjects as possible: he had the distinct impression that, once Sam could read fluently, he would all but _inhale_ them in his thirst for knowledge.

Soon enough, Sam was able to read the simple, short stories on the screen out loud to an openly proud Dean. He wheeled himself away from where the younger man was sitting with the laptop and began to try and stretch his sore back out, trying to contain the wince as his damaged vertebrae complained and cracked. He heard Sam’s voice pause as he stopped reading to watch him with concern. “Keep going.”

“Do you want some more of your medication?”

“I’ll fetch it: you keep going.”

But on his return, instead of returning to Sam’s side as the young man had been expecting, and hoping for, Dean propelled himself across to the crowded-with-books desk and began clearing a space on the top of it. Once he had enough room for his purpose, he removed some sheets of paper from the printer and began to use them for something, shoving the normal desk chair to one side so he could sit in his wheelchair and work comfortably.

Sam watched him from the corner of his eye, slightly upset that he no longer had his master’s full attention… and even more than slightly ashamed of himself that it already mattered that _much_ to him. His concentration lost, he began to stumble over the words he was trying to read…

“Spell it out. Out loud if you’re stuck. You’ve got the ‘t’….’oh’…’rrr’…’t’. What comes next? And remember: this one’s about a petting zoo, so chances are, you’re thinking about animals…?”

Sam felt even _more_ ashamed: Dean might be across the room now, but his focus was still on _Sam_. He shouldn’t have doubted his master. And for some reason, that knowledge caused the warmth in his chest to begin again. He hastened to continue.

“It’s an ‘oh’… and then an i which makes an ‘eye’ sound…”

“Or an…? Think about the other sound it makes. Can you remember what I said about the two letters together? Try spelling the word out as a whole.”

“’Oy. They make an ‘oy’. T’…’oh’…’rrr’…’t’…’oy’… Oh, _oh_ : it’s a tortoise. It’s a _tortoise!”_ He grinned across at Dean, who smiled back just as widely with innate pride for him.

“Okay. Finish your story. What about the tortoise?”

Sam hurried to obey.

Once he had done, Dean motioned for him to come over to where he was now sitting. “Time to have a break from that. I’m assuming you don’t know how to write either…?”

“Write?” And as Sam came round the edge of the desk, he finally realised what Dean had been doing behind the stacks of books that were still littering the top of it: he had been busy writing out the letters of the alphabet on one sheet of paper; both small and capital’s, all clear and easy to follow; and had other sheets of paper ready for… _Sam_ to use. Tears of joy immediately sprung to the young man’s eyes, and to his chagrin, this time he wasn’t able to stop them from falling.

“Shit, Sam.” And Dean was pulling the younger man down onto his lap in concern so he could reach to wipe them away. “Makes me ashamed: that what most of us take for granted should be such a big deal to you.”

“I’m sorry, master…”

But more tears broke free even as gentle fingers smudged them across his cheeks to air-dry. “I told you, Sam: it’s _Dean_. Just Dean.”

He checked his pockets and found a (relatively) clean tissue to use for Sam’s face as much as he could, then just sat quietly and waited for the younger man to be able to compose himself: the green eyes never once leaving Sam’s hazel ones; his arms resting softly, one around Sam’s back, the other over the long, slim legs.

Eventually Sam recovered himself enough to mumble an apology… and then nearly had a full-scale panic attack as he registered that he was sitting fully _on_ Dean and across his legs in his wheelchair. “Master, I’m so sorry! Oh god, am I hurting you!”

But even as he tried to jump up, all his limbs waving somewhat wildly in his anxiety, Dean was catching him firmly around the waist and helping him to stand safely and securely on his feet again. “No harm done. Are _you_ okay though? If you want to go and get a rest, we can do this later.”

“ _No!_ No. I want to learn to write, please. I’m sorry about that….”

“Well, _okay_.” And that genuine, sexy smile was there again. And this time, Sam became aware that the warmth inside his body was pooling somewhere a lot lower than before…

“Pull the chair back over. You sit at the desk. I’ve found a couple of lead-pencils for you to start with. They’re easier than a pen as it’s all about getting the pressure right: too hard, and you either break the lead or go through the paper; too light, and you can’t see what you’ve written!

I’m not sure if you want to just try copying the letters, or if you want to trace over what I’ve done, just to get the feel of it…”

Sam tried to copy the first one. But as Dean had predicted, he pressed too hard and the lead on the pencil snapped. He bit his lip and braced out of instinct, expecting a blow to land.

But instead the implement was gently taken out of his hand and replaced by another, while Dean simply began to sharpen the first one again: “Try again. It takes practise. I thought about just using the tablet for you to copy on the screen with a stylus, but… there’s nothing like using a real pen or pencil.” He smiled at Sam and put the first pencil back down on the desk, now restored to working order. “Go on.”

Sam tried again, this time with a lighter hand. It felt strange, holding the implement in his large, awkward hand; his fingers threatened to crush it instead, and as for control…? His first ever mark on paper was an ungainly shaky squiggle. He sighed in frustration: he was useless.

All his masters were right.

“Here.” And Dean was trying to work out how _he_ held a pen, so he could demonstrate… “It’s sort-of resting on my middle finger… and I’m using my thumb and index one to control it. Hmm: how do I do it? It’s hard when you think about it… you gotta just _do!_ ” And the grin was out again, although this time Sam was concentrating so hard on holding the fucking _stupid_ pencil in his fucking stupid _useless_ hand and making the stupid thing do what he fucking _wanted_ it to do, to notice. “Not so tight! Just relax your hand a bit. You’ll get it. Okay, now just try and make a line. Don’t worry about a letter for the moment, just do a line. _That’s_ it.”  

It took time, but Sam was finally able to copy a few letters. It wasn’t as easy as he had always assumed: his versions looked shaky and scratchy compared to Dean’s. But they were written by _him_ , and he felt proud… and stunned… and slightly in disbelief that this was really happening. He half wondered if he was still asleep in that draughty old pen back at the slave auction… only _yesterday_. But then, he figured: if this was only a dream, then his writing would be perfect immediately!

“That’s good. That’s good, Sam. It’ll get easier, more fluid, the more you practice.” Dean was proud of him as well. “I’m going to stretch my legs… well, I’m going to the bathroom,” as he realised the irony in what he had just said, “and then I’ll get us both a coffee. You okay to keep trying those, or do you want a break?”

Was he serious? Of _course_ Sam didn’t want a break! He said as much aloud before he had thought, and bit his already well-bloodied inner lip yet again in frustration that he had once more been insolent to his master. But Dean just laughed and wheeled himself out of the room, leaving the younger man to keep practising his new skill.

On his return, he was followed into the room by Bobby, who was carrying two steaming hot mugs. He put them carefully down on the desk, away from where Sam was so diligently working. “Thanks, Bobby.”

“See how easy it is to ask, boy? Isn’t that better than scalding yourself by trying to carry one and control that thing with just the other hand…?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Thanks, Bobby.” But the tone of gratitude wasn’t quite so genuine the second time. “How you doing, Sam?”

“I _think_ I’m getting it…”

“It’s looking good, boy.” And the old man sounded genuinely impressed, as he looked at the sheets of paper. “You done all that this morning?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good on ’ya. I’ll call you both when it’s time to eat.” He turned to leave them to it but paused: “You taken your next lot of tablets, Dean?”

“Just then, Bobby.”

“Okay.” And he disappeared from view through the door.

“ _Did_ you just then? Because you went to get some before we started _this_ as well!” Sam was genuinely worried and upset. “Have you taken more than you should again? Is sitting there for so long hurting your back? Because you’ve been helping _me?_ You mustn’t do it; you _shouldn’t_ do it! I’m here to help _you!_ You mustn’t overdo it: you need to concentrate on getting your back better! Forget about this… and me.”

Dean smiled at him, but it had returned to the strained version with eyes full of sadness: “Don’t you worry about that. It hurts whether I sit, stand or lie. And… thanks for not saying that in front of Bobby. You just concentrate on those. Go on.” As Sam still hesitated.

“Actually…” Dean fetched some more paper and laid it in front of the younger man where he was sitting. “…Write an ‘M’ there. A capital one. That’s it. Now a ‘y’, a little one. That’s perfect. Now leave a space…sort of enough that you could write another letter in if you needed to… yeah, about there, and write an ‘n’…”

He gave Sam more instructions, and then sat back in satisfaction. “Now read what you’ve written!”

“M…eye… my… My name is… Sam!” And the younger man was looking up at him, his eyes wide once more with excitement. “I _wrote_ that!”

“You sure did!” And Dean was beaming at him with pride, but Sam could hardly see it as he was feeling tearful once more…. and _stupid_ to the point of ridiculousness: fancy _crying_ because he was learning to read and write, and in front of his master as well…?

But then Dean was offering him some clean tissues that he must have brought back in with him and laughing sympathetically that he was glad he could help as he could see what a big deal it was, and how Sam must never be embarrassed about anything: _anything_ Dean could do to help, he would.

And Sam found himself believing him.

And for some reason, that made him cry even more.

 


	6. That Afternoon

Sam watched his master carefully as they ate lunch. Bobby had reheated the left over chicken and fries before calling the two of them through to the kitchen, but he was correct in what he had said the previous day. Dean really wasn’t eating very much… and certainly not enough to help him get back to good health. He may have eaten most of his breakfast, but now he sat and played with the food, moving it around the plate a lot, but very little of it actually made it to his mouth.

Although he _did_ drink at least three mugs of coffee, topping it up continually as the other two finished their own food. And he had glanced at what Sam had dared to help himself to, worried about being punished for taking too much, and just about doubled the amount on the young man’s plate while encouraging him to eat up.

Bobby and Sam had exchanged a look, but nothing had been said… for the moment, anyway. But Sam could see why the old man was worried.

He was hoping that they could return to the reading straight after, but instead the meal was interrupted by the loud blare of a horn and a pick-up was pulling up outside with two men in it. Bobby glanced out the window: “it’s Jonah and Mo, coming to pick up the Ford. You gonna come and show them how good a job you done?”

“Nah, you can deal with it.” And Dean was staring down at his fingers, his voice quiet.

Bobby ground his teeth a little: “They’ll be pleased to see you. A lot of people in town ask after you, boy: they all want to know you’re okay.  Come and talk Jonah through what needed doing…”

“It wasn’t much, Bobby. _You’d_ have had it done in a couple of hours. Just charge the two hours. As long as it covers those meds…”

“For…!” And the old man was moving to stand behind where Dean was sat, reaching to take hold of the handles on the back of the wheelchair in his frustration. “Sam! Get the door!”

“What are you…? No! Sam, don’t you dare!”

But Bobby was already pulling the chair away from the table and turning it ready to take his obstinate charge out of the room: “Sam. Get the door. _Now_.”

And the young man hurried to obey Bobby as, even though he was anxious about being forced to disobey his master, he was _more_ than terrified by the clipped tone of the older man’s voice.

He followed them outside as Dean was pushed in the wheelchair against his will out to meet the two men, worried about what would happen once his master got inside, and out of public view, again. But then Sam realised that he hadn’t actually been given permission to _do_ that, so he slowed his steps enough to stand out of the way, but close enough to be in earshot to hear in case he were to be called over.

He could see the tension and muted anger in Dean’s shoulders at being forced to go out and meet his friends, although he had stopped complaining… at least verbally… the moment he had got outside. That was bad. He would be looking for something… or _someone_ … to take his rage and humiliation out on. Sam almost felt sick at the way the, so far, most wonderful day of his life, had suddenly turned so bad so fast.

But then the bonnet on the Ford was being popped, and Dean was leaning forward slightly in his wheelchair to discuss something with the one man that Sam guessed was Jonah, and it was obviously something of interest to them both as they were then gesturing around them at other cars in the yard, comparing the different styles and engines. And the other man and Bobby were also joining in, and Sam could hear laughter from where he was hiding…

He decided that it would be sensible for him to return inside the house and pretend that he hadn’t been so curious as to follow the two others out. Quickly he cleared the table, hoping that that would keep his master in a good mood when he also came in, and that he might forget about Sam’s open disobedience.

Once that was done, Sam looked around: should he return to his writing in the living room? But perhaps he wasn’t expected to be in there on his own? After all, there were a lot of belongings in the room, and certainly a lot of old-looking, and possibly valuable, books. Bobby might not be happy about him, a careless slave, being in there with them without his master being there to watch him.

Perhaps he should just sit and wait in the kitchen?

But then… if Dean was only _hiding_ his anger outside, and he returned back through that door, and the first thing that he laid his eyes on was _Sam…?_

Perhaps he should just go up to his room? But… was that only for him to use at night? And… Sam suddenly wondered… where had Dean slept? Shouldn’t _he_ have been in the spare room, but then…what with him being hardly able to stand at the moment, it was understandable that he would stay on the ground floor rather than have to try to get up the stairs every night…?

But where did his master _sleep?_

He took the chance to explore the downstairs of the house, not that there was much of it besides the large study-cum-living room and the kitchen that he had already seen. But as he came into the hallway and faced the front door, Sam noticed another room off to one side.

Carefully he tried the door and peered inside. It seemed that it had originally been used as a dining room, as there was what looked to have been a large table, dismantled and reduced to its basic components, propped against one of the walls. A couple of chairs stood in the corner, one overturned and resting on the other so their seats were together, and the others in the set presumably those that were in the living room covered in stacks of books!

Otherwise the furniture in the room was quite sparse. A dresser had been pushed as far into another corner as possible to make room for a small but sturdy chest of drawers that had a few toiletries scattered across the top of it, and an old-looking but functional hospital bed: one that could be raised or lowered, or the ‘head’ section set as upright or flat as the user required.

The only other things that Sam could see in the room were two travel bags on the floor besides the drawer set, one half open and resting on top of the other. Curious, Sam crossed over to look into them.

The one on top had a few clothes packed neatly into it, almost as if it was being got ready to be grabbed up and taken at a moment’s notice. The other was bulging at the seams and heavy against Sam’s foot as he prodded at it. He moved the one on top so he could unzip it a little… and hurriedly closed it up again.

It seemed to be full of _weapons_. He could see guns, and knives, and other things that Sam was afraid to know about: the bag was _full_ of them. The young man felt his hands trembling as he carefully replaced the other, half-full one on top and stood up, taking a deep breath to try and calm himself down.

Why would Dean have so much weaponry?

And, more importantly, what did he _do_ with it?

He was by now standing resting with one hand against the chest of drawers and idly opened the top one. It contained a few clothes, what looked like shirts and t-shirts, all neatly folded. As did the next: a couple of pairs of denims, and soft sweatpants. And the next: boxers and socks. And a couple of the large fleece shirts that his master wore were in the fourth drawer down. The last two were completely empty.

Sam stared at the few items with confusion. Just about all of his previous owners had had houses full of belongings. Even his _masters_ had had large walk-in wardrobes full of clothes. And his female owners? Mistress Ruby had had numerous rooms connected to her bedroom that must have held the equivalent of a large _boutique!_

Could these _really_ be the only belongings that Dean had?

Or had the rest of it been lost in the bad car crash that had also claimed his father’s life?

Sam might have never had anything, but… he felt genuinely upset for the other man. Everything must have changed so much for his poor new master in the last couple of months, and in such a terrible way. No wonder Bobby was so worried about him.

He scanned his eyes over the room, ensuring that it didn’t look like he had touched anything at all, and turned to leave.

And felt his heart all but stop beating from sheer terror.

Because Dean was sitting in his wheelchair behind him in the now open doorway.

 _Watching_ him.

The green eyes appeared to be calm, and the mouth wasn’t even set grimly, but… his master was obviously powerfully built, the method of getting about by manoeuvring himself along the counter and the cars just through the sheer strength of his shoulders and arms testified to _that._ And Sam had just been caught where he definitely should _not_ have been: fingering what he should not have been _touching_ …

Sam was already in tears as he instinctively slumped to his knees, half-inclined to fully prostrate himself and beg for forgiveness. What the _hell_ had he just been thinking? This could possibly have been the best master that he was ever likely to have… or even probably, the _last_ master that he would ever have. Being returned to the auctions yet again would mean the decisive last purchase by a mine owner or the like…

 _If_ he survived the next few minutes.

Sam had been told by numerous previous owners that he was the most stupid and useless slave that they had ever had: this was possibly the first time that he had ever really _believed_ them all. Because he _was_. He had been here only two days, and had just been caught snooping in his master’s bedroom. He _knew_ he deserved the beating that would definitely be coming…

“Master, I wasn’t stealing, I… I’m sorry, I… just wondered where _you_ were sleeping… I didn’t mean to touch…”

There was a long, ominous silence in the room, aside the sounds of Sam’s choked snivels and sniffs as he tried to stop himself from begging for mercy. He held his head as low as he could, hoping desperately to avoid Dean’s eyes, his long hair falling loose and aside, exposing his neck. He saw the wheels of the chair approaching his knees, but he didn’t dare look up…

The slight touch to the back of his neck was the _single_ most _menacing_ thing that Sam had ever known.  

He didn’t dare breathe, he didn’t dare move: he could only kneel, bent over in supplication, and wait for whatever was about to happen to him…

Then the gentle fingers were running around the edge of the rough-rimmed collar as Dean studied more closely what he had just noticed: the sore and already-bloodied wounds caused from the sharp edges from the metal that had been used to form it. “Shit, Sam, how tight is this thing? Shit, it’s rubbing you raw!”

And he was pulling Sam’s body up a little so that he could check around the whole collar, wincing at the reddened and bleeding abrasions as the edge rubbed around the younger man’s neck.

Then he registered how much Sam was shaking, and how wide with terror his eyes were open, and how they were shining in frozen trepidation, and responded instantly, pushing his body forward in the chair’s seat so he could put his right hand firmly over the other’s heart and feel how frantically it was pounding, while his damaged left hand went around Sam’s shoulders and pulled the younger man closer to him to try and calm him down. “Hey. _Hey._ It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you. I’d never do that, I _never_ would.”

Dean held Sam until he felt the panicked, short gasps for air level and become easier, and the shaking in his body subside at least a little, and the heart rate ease to a less stressful rate. Then he was feeling around the collar again, testing to see if he could get any of his fingers in beside Sam’s skin without throttling the young man fully. “I think we can perhaps get the bolt cutters in here. We’ll have this off for you in a moment…”

“No. _No!_ You mustn’t!”  And Sam was catching at his hands in a panic. “If I’m caught without a collar then…!” He couldn’t finish. He would rather take the _worst_ beating than risk being accused and dealt with as being an absconding slave. “They’d be after _you_ as well, for trying to help me escape!” His breathing returned to being ragged, he came close to hyperventilating: such was his terror at having the collar removed and how serious the consequences would be.

Then Dean was holding him tightly once again, and Sam was clinging to him as well, as if his master was his only lifeline in a storm. “Okay.” The deep voice was calm, controlled, re-assuring. Sam felt himself calming down just from the sound reverberating in his ear. “So we’ll look into what we have to do to get you another. _Bobby!_ ”

“Yeah!”  The responding shout was from elsewhere in the house.

“Can you fetch me the first-aid kit? And a tape-measure?”

“What? Why?” And the older man was entering the room, pausing with surprise at the sight of a tear-streaked Sam on his knees pressing up into Dean’s body as he leant forward in the wheelchair, with their arms firm around each other. “Why is Sam in here?”

“Never mind that. Look at this. Have we any bandages or padding that we can get in here to cushion this fucking thing?”

“What…” But Bobby also swore as he too saw the blood on Sam’s t-shirt that had been trickling down from the increasingly painful-looking sores caused by the sharp edges of the collar. “Jesus! Why the hell didn’t you say sommat, boy?”

“I…” But Sam didn’t know what to say so he didn’t at all: he just held tight to Dean as the others carefully packed soft strips of bandages around and inside the collar to try and contain the damage it had done in just two days, and took measurements of his neck to get another.    

Then he was going red in the face as Bobby finished and turned to all but glare directly at him with a not completely pleasant look on his face: “I still don’t understand what Sam is doing in here?”

Sam didn’t know how to answer: should he just admit that he had been caught prying in his master’s belongings…?

But Dean was already replying to Bobby. “Jonah and Mo said they’re coming back later to take me for a drink, even if they have to carry me out from this house! I asked Sam to come in here and check if my AC/DC t-shirt is clean.” He grunted nonchalantly. “Should’ve figured he wouldn’t know what it looks like. So I was coming to fetch it myself when he stepped back, caught himself on this fucking chair and fell over. That’s when I noticed his neck.”

Sam stared up at him incredulously: why was Dean protecting him? Bobby was definitely suspicious, and he had good cause to be after the way Sam had behaved that afternoon. Why had his master lied to his friend? Was it because he was already plotting a terrible punishment himself for Sam’s snooping? But the green eyes didn’t look angry as they calmly met his gaze, and the hand that was now on Sam’s shoulder was squeezing it with a reassurance that… Sam instinctively wanted to trust.

And apparently Bobby was also accepting the excuse. “Okay. What time they coming? Why don’t'cha have a rest before they do: you ain’t been sleeping much lately.”

“Nah, I’m good. I’ll come and help you outside. Just grab me out that shirt, will you, Sam. Top drawer: should be the third one down on the left.”

And Sam was finding the t-shirt as ordered, placing it reverently on the bed and following his master obediently out of the room, determined to be on his very _best_ behaviour from then on.

He was surprised at himself with his own disappointment when Dean went out that evening, leaving him with Bobby. He sat and tried to continue with his reading and writing: Bobby had found him another pack of paper, and Sam had progressed to first reading the short stories out, then trying to copy them down from memory, working the words out in his head, and feeling the mark from the pencil get easier and smoother with every stroke.

But he was also getting tired, and soon the old man suggested that he stopped for the night. Bobby himself was sitting with a couple of his old books and researching something. Sam watched how he almost seemed to skim through the pages, and envied him the skill and ease.

“It’ll come. Dean says you’ve done brilliant already: says you’re a clever son of a bitch. He’s proud of you.”

Sam blushed and felt his insides heat up with warmth at the praise. And his master hadn’t said _anything_ at all to him about being in his room without permission even though they had been together all afternoon, helping Bobby tidy up the yard...with Sam doing the work and Dean ‘supervising’… although the young man had apologised at least seven times more.

But Dean _had_ made it known, somewhat pointedly, that if there was anything else that he should know, similar to the sores from the collar, or…well _anything!_... then Sam was to _tell_ him: he _wasn’t_ to suffer in silence. Because Sam didn’t _have_ to: not any more.

Bobby was still talking at him: Sam hurried to try and focus his attention on the old man. “I just hope he’s not getting too drunk: he shouldn’t really be drinking, not with his meds… remind me I bought him some more yesterday as well as the cream: I forgot to put them away with the others… although I can’t honestly remember the last time Dean _did_ get drunk. He’s been able to drink _me_ under the table since he was about twenty! But, combined with those tablets…

But at least he’s out of the _house_. First time willingly in a long time. Can’t get the idgit to even come into town with me. I sure hope he’s enjoying it, and having a good time…

Anyway, Sam. You don’t have to keep me company, you go on to bed if you want. Get yourself something to take with you from the fridge. _I’ll_ wait up and see Dean in. That was good, last night. _Real_ good. He actually got some sleep. Somehow you gave him peace, at least for a few hours. That’s what he _needs_ : rest and _peace_ …”

Sam took the hint and escaped upstairs. But the moment the door was shut again behind him, he was looking around the room… _his_ room… and remembering the panic that had set in during the previous night… He didn’t want to repeat that…

He didn’t want to be in that room on his own again.

So he sat on the bed and waited.

First and most importantly: for his master to return home safely. And Dean’s well-being already really _mattered_ to him. Which surprised him as Sam had never cared at _all_ for a master: he had always despised every _one_ of them with equal prejudice.

But there was just something _about_ this green-eyed man who now owned him…

Sam crept back down the stairs a little and watched Dean in when he finally returned. The Ford had been driven up to the front door, and Jonah and his friends had piled out to help him get out from the front passenger seat and once more into the wheelchair with a lot of noise and jokes about ‘helping him lean on them if he’s legless!’

And that had caused a lot of amusement among the group, and they had poured into the house with a lot of laughter: enough that they even had Bobby joining in, and caused Sam to smile and wish he could be part of it all.

How wonderful it would be, how _amazing_ : if he were ever to be allowed to go out for the night with his master?

Even to just… _be_ there… with Dean, and look after him.

Just to be able to watch him smile.

Even just _once_.

Perhaps one day.

Perhaps.

And then Jonah and the others were piling back into the car once more and driving away, and Bobby was locking the front door behind them, and asking Dean if he needed anything, and the other man was smiling tiredly but saying he was fine, and they were saying goodnight. And Sam was slipping silently back to his room because Bobby was coming up the stairs, and Dean was presumably disappearing to his own bedroom on the ground floor, and the house was falling silent.

Still Sam sat, and waited just that little bit longer.

Until he felt that perhaps the others might have fallen asleep. Then he gathered up his blankets and, as an afterthought, the pillow, and sneaked back down the stairs.

The door to Dean’s room opened with a slight squeak and Sam winced and held his breath… but his master didn’t stir. The younger man slipped inside and stood looking around.

He would have liked to have lain right beside the bed, but, if Dean got up in the night again and fell over him, Sam would never have forgiven himself…

So instead he inched through to the rear of the sparse room in the darkness, and instead found enough space to lie at the foot of the hospital bed. Sam settled himself down on the floor there with his pillow and wrapped the blankets tightly around his long body.

And there he lay, listening to the soft snores and occasional mumble and mutter from his master.

And somehow his presence was comforting.

Sam thought about how he had woken up only that morning with Dean in his arms, and… he wished that he could do that again. It had just felt so _right_. It made Sam feel warm inside.

And safe. Somehow, being with Dean made him feel _safe_.

And that was the last thought Sam had before he fell into the deepest, soundest sleep that he had had for a very, very long time.

 


	7. The Morning After the Night Before

Sunlight was streaming in through the drapes by the time he opened his eyes again. Sam lay blinking against it and disorientated for a few minutes as to where he was… then realisation hit that… he had not only _overslept_ , but he had overslept when he had _meant_ to get up even _earlier_ than usual, to give him the chance to slip back to his own room before his master woke…

But Dean’s bed was already empty.

Shit: he had really messed _that_ up!

Sam was on his feet and dressing himself in an instant. _And_ a panic. How the hell was he going to explain why he was in Dean’s room… again.

Especially when Sam wasn’t quite sure _himself_ why he had wanted so badly to sleep in with his master.

But he _had_.

Bobby glanced round as Sam sheepishly crept into the kitchen, and raised his eyebrows. “First thing first: breakfast. There’s some warm scrambled eggs made in that covered pan, bacon under the grill, and fresh coffee made. Grab as much as you want.”

Sam hurried to obey. “Where’s Dean?”

The old man grunted. “Outside. He’s been outside since before _dawn_ : couldn’t sleep, as usual. He’s never liked being stuck indoors much… but I’m worried, Sam.” The crack in his voice gave away his emotion. ”There seem to be even fewer tablets in the container than I think there should be. I think his back’s _bad_ this morning…”

Despite himself, he had to fight down a smile as he saw immediate anxiety appear in the younger man’s eyes: “I’ll go and find him right away and make sure he’s alright.” And Sam was heading towards the back door, the food now on his plate forgotten.

“Nah. Sit down, lad. Eat your food. I want to talk to you anyway.” And he was pulling out a chair for himself and motioning for Sam to do the same. “Now.” As the young man took a mouthful of egg. “Do you want to tell me what the hell you were doing in Dean’s room yesterday… he’d have got that shirt _himself:_ no _way_ he’d have asked you if _he_ could’ve done it… and why you decided to spend the _night_ in there? And no hogwash now: the truth, Sam.” And he was staring straight at the other… and waiting.

Sam felt as if he was going to be sick: Bobby didn’t _sound_ angry but…

He did the only sensible thing that he could do. He told the truth.

“I’m sorry, Bobby.” It was only a whisper: it was all Sam could _manage_. “I wasn’t stealing or anything yesterday. It was just that… I wondered where mast… where Dean was sleeping… and when I was looking around… I wasn’t _snooping_ , Bobby, _really_ …! I just wanted to see… _but_ …”

Sam paused and took a deep breath. But either he was already in serious trouble… or he wasn’t. He might as well risk it all…

“Is that _really_ all he has, Bobby? You bought _me_ more clothes than master has in his chest of drawers! I just… how old is he, Bobby? He doesn’t seem to have _anything!_   I just wish…”

“What, boy?” And the old man was listening intently. “ _What_ do you wish…?”

But _Sam_ didn’t even know what he wished.

“And why I was in his room last _night_ , Bobby…? I…I thought it would be wonderful having somewhere to sleep on my own: I’ve _prayed_ for it for years… to be left alone… to have somewhere to … think of as _mine_. But…”

“But?”

“I hated it, Bobby.” The young man bit his lip and tried to blink the encroaching tears away: he felt so stupid admitting this. _And_ ungrateful. He could hardly hear his own voice. “I got so panicked that first night: I… I couldn’t breathe. I thought someone would come in…. not Dean!” He hastened to add. “Not him! I feel _safe_ with _him!_ But… _someone_... I got so scared that _someone_ would try and come in! I just… felt safer being with Dean…

I know you’re wondering what the hell you’ve wasted your money on… you could have done a lot better than me! I know I’m just a broken, useless slave…”

“Bullshit, boy.” And Sam’s heart sank momentarily. “You ain’t broken: you’ve just been abused. And abused _badly_.

Okay.” Bobby was sitting back in his chair and pursing his lips while he thought. “Okay, I’m taking it that this ain’t a one-off: that you’ll be looking to stay in his room again? A lock on your door ain’t going to help make you feel safe?” He sighed at Sam’s shining eyes, already knowing the answer.

“I’m guessing not. Well… if it helps. And you already seem to be helping _him!_ Although he must have been surprised to see you this morning: he left a note on the table telling me you were there and not to disturb you. But if it’s going to be a regular occurrence, than I sure as hell don’t want him falling over you in the night…

Okay.” He was pushing back his chair and getting up. “And Sam?”

“Yes, mist… Bobby?”

The old man grunted: “It’s just Bobby. And don’t you forget it. But I appreciate you talking truthfully to me, Second rule: we deal with any problems together. _Anything_. You come and tell me, _or_ Dean, and we’ll find a way to sort it out, okay?”

“Thanks, Bobby.” And Sam really meant it: he couldn’t believe that he didn’t seem to be in trouble. He felt almost light-headed with… relief… _and_ disbelief. Could this really be happening to him: that he had found himself somewhere so _wonderful_ after everything that he had been through…?

But there was one thing that he had been wondering… he hadn’t dared to the previous night, but… perhaps _now_ was a good time to risk asking…? “Bobby?”

The other paused in his activity of fetching himself another mug of coffee: “yeah, boy?”

“Who…? Who was the other Sam? When I told Dean my name… _and_ you…?”

There was a long pause. Bobby bent his head forward momentarily against the top kitchen cupboard as if in grief, and Sam wished he hadn’t been so stupid as to open his mouth.

But then the other was crossing deliberately to the back door and making sure that it was closed tightly before turning to face Sam.

“Sam…. _Sammy_ … was Dean’s baby brother. He died in the same fire that their mom died in. John…,” Bobby’s voice faltered momentarily, but he forced himself to continue… “John said he was awakened by screaming. He’d fallen asleep on the couch and when he got upstairs… Well… He saw Dean standing in the doorway of the nursery _screaming_ , and it was all on fire…

The crib was on fire, and baby Sam was crying inside it. And Mary… Dean’s mom… she was _alight_. John told him to run while he tried to save his wife and the baby, but… it was too late. The house went up in flames. And the boy saw it all. He was only four or five at the time but he saw it _all_ …”

He was crying. Bobby was crying. Sam wished that he hadn’t asked… that he hadn’t upset him… but…”Is that why Dean and his dad still stayed together… worked together? Jodie said that they travelled around…? They must have been very close, having gone through that and only having each other left…?”

The only response this time was a snort, and the old man’s body tensed with anger born from years of hatred:  “Ya’d think…!

You’d _think_ that John would treasure Dean after losing the others… but no… not John _Winchester_.  From then on, _Sam_ became the one that would have been faster, smarter, stronger, more capable. At _everything_. No matter what Dean did, it was never good enough… not for _John_.

His little brother would _always_ have been better.

How can you expect the boy to compete with a ghost?

It used to break my heart.

And John and I… we had some rows about it. _God_ , we had some rows. How could he treat Dean like that when the boy worshipped the ground his old man walked on…?” He sighed and looked across at Sam. “We weren’t even speaking at the end: John and I hadn’t spoken for _years_. But I always tried my hardest to keep in touch with Dean: always tried to tell him that… he was welcome _here_ , he had a home _here_. Whenever he wanted.

But anyways… At least when Dean was in the hospital… he’d put me as a contact. I was glad for that. I wish he would’ve come years sooner…”

“You love him very much, don’t you?” Sam wasn’t even asking, it was more a statement: the remains of his breakfast lying now on the plate, congealed and forgotten.

The old man nodded, tears now openly trickling down his face… “I never _got_ to have a kid of my own: we were never blessed that way. And then my wife died and I…

But if I had, then I could _never_ be more proud of him or her than I am of Dean.

He’s a damn good man, Sam….

But he’d never believe anyone who tells him that. As far as _he’s_ concerned: he’s just the useless waste of space screw-up that John Winchester spent his entire life _telling_ him he was…

Makes me so _mad_ …”

He wiped at his tears and shook himself out of his sorrow: “This won’t do: I’ve got chores! And _you_ need to go and see what that idgit’s _doing_ out there: he’s too quiet. He went to watch the dawn, but if he’s trying to chop that firewood when I specifically told him _not_ to, then you have my permission to break both his legs!” And he was heading off into the house without looking back, leaving Sam sitting at the table on his own with tears prickling at his own eyes.

Eventually he shook the sadness off and hurried to go outside to find Dean. Remembering what Bobby had said, Sam went to check the woodpile first, but to his relief his master wasn’t there. Nor was he by the Impala. _Or_ in the carport. So instead he started to look around the cluttered scrapyard.

Sam was surprised at how large the yard was. He hadn’t really had a chance to look around since he had arrived… and just being allowed the freedom to wander at will was so much an act of _trust_ shown in him by Bobby and his master that… Sam felt tears spring to his eyes yet again. But he still had to find Dean…

He sighed at himself as he noticed the parallel tracks of the wheelchair in the dirt: why hadn’t he thought of that before? Quickly he began to follow them, and soon realised that they were leading him to the rear of the land… where it looked towards the high hills and mountains that could be seen in the distance to the east…

The sunrise above them on that bright summer’s morning must have been _spectacular_.

Sam frowned. He was now quite some distance from the house, yet there was still no sign of his master. Although the tracks were now veering away from the main route through the metal-walled maze, and instead were disappearing behind yet more stacks of cars…

As the young man also rounded the corner, he paused momentarily with confusion: the twin trails seemed to lead to a strange object close to the perimeter fence on that side. It was like a flat, black panel, supported somehow so that it was held up vertically on the dirt, and on top of it was a horizontal silvery, rubber-edged thing that seemed to be catching the light as if moving slightly… and another similar at the base of the panel that was covered in dust, as if the dirt had been kicked up around it…

Sam stared at it blankly for a moment…then the whole thing jarred slightly where it was… and suddenly he was rushing forward in panic as he realised…

It was the wheelchair! On its side in the dirt!

And Dean was on the ground next to it: in agony from where he had fallen, and helpless.

“Master!” Sam was on his knees beside him, already trying to help.

“Cut that fucking _crap_ , Sam: I’m not in the mood!” And Dean was furious at him; at the world in general; and most of all at _himself_ for being so fucking useless. “Just put the fucking chair back upright, put the brake on for me, and go _away._ ”

“But?”

“Just do as you’re fucking _told_ , will you?”

The younger man bit his lip but obeyed, hastening to pick the wheelchair up and move it as close to his master as he could. Even as he did, he noticed the blood that had spread in a large stain on Dean’s now-ripped denim-covered left leg below the knee… _and_ the drying blood on the left side of the dusty-blonde hair. “You’re hurt….”

“Did you work that out yourself, Einstein?” And Dean was trying to drag his body so that he could get enough of a grip on the chair to pull himself up on it. “Just hold it fucking steady then, if you’re going to stay!” His right hand groped towards the seat, trying to reach it…

But Sam had had enough. With one easy movement, he was sliding his hands beneath the other’s body and had scooped the older man up in his arms before Dean had realised what he was doing, straightening up with him held securely bridal-style even as the other clutched around his neck in an irate panic.

“Sam! _No!_ Don’t you fucking dare! Put me _down!_ Right _now!_ ”

“Yes, master.” And Sam was depositing Dean gently back into the wheelchair, as softly as he could so that he didn’t jar the man’s spine even more than it must already have been…

But Dean was so beyond angry that he momentarily didn’t care. The first that Sam knew of the punch was that his master’s powerful clenched fist was heading at his jaw quicker than he was able to even flinch at the sight…

But it never connected. Sam blinked back tears of terror as he realised that the violent blow _hadn’t_ connected with his face… that Dean had _pulled_ the right-handed jab as suddenly as he had _thrown_ it. “Go away, Sam. Just go _away!_ _Right_ now! Just… give me a while, okay!”

And he was burying his face in his hands, shaking with frustration, and rage…at _everything_ … and shame that he had lost his temper with the gentle, abused young slave. He was aware of Sam obeying and moving away…

… but slowly, as his emotions calmed and his breath became more steady, it came to Dean that he _still_ wasn’t alone.

With a sigh he lowered his hands, wincing with pain as he did, trying to forget that morning’s events and the fucking stupid fence that he had earlier been leaning contentedly against watching the sunrise, and _fallen_ from when trying to return himself to that fucking, _stupid_ , chair that just _wouldn’t_ stay where it was fucking put… and finally forced himself to look to his right…

To see Sam kneeling silently in the dirt beside the wheelchair, tears trickling down his face. There were two small patches of damp on his knees where they were being dripped onto.

The sight made Dean feel even worse. He didn’t know what to do: he wanted to reach out and console the younger man… he got as far as putting his hand nearly to the soft, long hair… but stalled, his arm still out-stretched and held in mid-air…

Sam had watched his indecision via the motions of their shadows in the sun-lit dust in front of him. He _so_ wanted that contact. He wanted Dean to _touch_ him. “You can.” More tears fell as the older man started with surprise, and his hand was removed completely to return to the confines of the wheelchair. “I’d like that. If you’d stroke me…” What the hell was he _saying_ …?

But it was true. He _wanted_ Dean’s hands on him. He really _did_.

His master grunted. “It’d feel like petting a dog, Sam. You sure as hell ain’t a dog!”

There was another silence. Dean broke it this time: “I’ll give you this. I thought _Bobby_ could be stubborn, but you’re the most pig-headed son of a bitch I think I’ve ever met. Anyone ever told you that before?”

Despite himself Sam smiled, his attention still seemingly focused on his knees. “Every single one of my previous masters! And that I’m the most stupid, worthless and useless slave they’ve ever known…”

“You ain’t useless, Sam.” Dean was immediately defending him. “ _Nor_ are you stupid! _Or_ worthless! But you’re sure as hell _obstinate_ ….”

They fell silent again, but this time it was a much easier one between them. “I’m sorry.” Dean finally apologised. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry I got angry at you…”

“You didn’t _hit_ me.” And now Sam was daring to look up at his master, and for the first time realising that _Dean_ had been crying as well.

“I’d never have forgiven myself if I had.”

This time, Sam’s smile was directed straight at the older man. He raised himself on his heels enough that he could lean on the armrest of the chair: “What happened? Was it your back? _Is_ it your back?”

Dean didn’t answer… but the strain and pain in his face meant that he didn’t have to. “We should get you inside. Get Bobby to check you over. How bad is your leg: there’s blood all over you?”

“I’m fine.”

“No you’re not!”

“Why were you on the floor in my room last night?”

The abrupt change of subject caught the younger man by surprise. And trepidation. What if his master was really angry about it? “I…”

“I thought I was having a really bad dream… when I heard you come in. Thought it was… Then I realised it was _you_ … wondered what you were doing.”

“You _heard_ me…?”

Dean looked down at his right hand: his left one now tucked into his side, out of Sam’s view.  “I don’t sleep good,” he admitted. “Drink _used_ to help. But not for a long time. So… what were you doing in there? I thought you were worried about _not_ being on your own…?”

“I hate it.” Sam admitted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t feel safe… I feel safe with _you_ …”

“You don’t _know_ me, Sam. You don’t have a _clue_.”

“I know enough.”

And Dean was staring at him incredulously. But he said nothing. Then he was grimacing as yet another spasm shot through his spine, and trying to shift his position in the chair.  Sam was on his feet in a moment and reaching for the handles behind his master’s shoulders, ready to push it back to the house.

“Leave it: I’m fine!” And then Dean felt even more guilty for snapping at him so irrationally.

The younger man was abashed but still worried. “Is your back hurting this morning? Is that why you got up so early? How many pain killers have you taken already: you’ve got Bobby worried!”

Dean nodded but again stayed silent. Sam felt his frustration rise. “ _Please,_ master, talk to me! _Have_ you been taking too much medication? Your back didn’t seem too _bad_ yesterday: did… did helping _me_ hurt it? Did I…?”

“No. No, Sam! It wasn’t _you!_ I… Just… forget it.” And he was once again trying to get himself comfortable in his seat, and sighed as he just _couldn’t_. “Aw hell, let’s get in.”

“No.” And Sam was flushing as Dean looked round and up at him, the green eyes flashing with some irritation. But he stood his ground. “No, master. What do you mean: it wasn’t me? Who, then? _Tell_ me.”

“It don’t matter.” And Dean was looking down at the nails on his right hand again, his voice hardly audible. Even when Sam knelt in front of him and pleaded with him with his eyes… “Jesus, Sam: where the hell did you learn to do that puppy-dog look?”

But it worked. His master rubbed his forehead wearily and sighed: “Do you know the worst thing about being in this damned chair, Sammy?” He didn’t even wait for the young man to acknowledge anything but supplied his own response. “And I was probably as bad as _anyone_ before this!

It’s the way that everyone talks above your head. You’re sitting and they’re standing, and they talk… _above_ you! Not only above your voice, but above… _you!_ And about you, as if you’re not there… you’re down _there_ , and you’re something that has to be talked _to_. As if your brain and ability to understand have disappeared along with your legs!

And… everyone thinks that they know what you _need_. And how to help… even if you wish they _wouldn’t...”_

Sam frowned. And waited. And waited some more.

Eventually Dean sighed: “I’m sorry I didn’t invite you last night. I didn’t think… and there wasn’t any room in the car, and I only really knew Jonah and Mo… and a couple of others when we got there… and it was actually okay. But I should have asked you.

It felt good… all sitting together. All at the same height… I felt… _normal_ … again.

The problem was when they brought me back. I know they were only trying to help, but… if they’d just left me to get myself out of the car… it might have taken me a couple of minutes, but…”

“They hurt you.”

Dean was still concentrating on his right hand. “They didn’t mean to. They just… tried to help, but I wasn’t ready. I’d rather they’d just left me to get myself into the chair…”

“They _hurt_ you.”

Dean blinked at the venom he could hear in the voice. “It wasn’t anything at the time. I only had a couple of drinks, but I didn’t realise when they pulled me out of the car… it only started to be bad during the night. _Really_ bad. I couldn’t bear to keep lying there with the pain… but they didn’t _mean_ to…” He glanced up at Sam to see if he understood…

And did a double take.

Dean had seen a lot of frightening things in his life: he had seen a lot of monsters that were, frankly, _terrifying_. And he had seen a lot of eyes full of anger, of numerous different inhuman colours and forms, and a lot of menacing countenances… but now he couldn’t help himself from inhaling sharply…

… at the sight of the _fury_ in the young man’s face.

Sam’s gentle hazel eyes were now so unbelievably dark that he almost didn’t look human, they were flashing with _so_ much hatred. His nostrils were flaring, his jaw was set tight, and his whole countenance was… fixed on Dean with such _intensity_ that the older man felt a tremor run down his painful spine. “You’re never going out with them again.”

“I… What?”

Then to his surprise, and tremendous discomfort, Dean suddenly found each side of his face caught up in two extremely large and strong hands, and that angry countenance was just about _all_ he could see. He could feel the spit from Sam’s mouth spattering his own cheeks as the words were repeated with even _more_ force: “ _You_. Are. _Never_. Going out with them again!”

The older man was completely taken aback. He could only stare straight into the slave’s eyes in disbelief for a moment, before having to drop his own green ones away while he tried to recover his poise. “It was an accident, Sam. They didn’t mean to…”

“I don’t care. They _did!_ They weren’t looking _after_ you. Not like _I_ would have done if _I’d_ been there!”

“I know…” And Dean was now looking up again into the young man’s eyes, only inches from his own… “I know you would have. Next time you’re coming with me. I _mean_ that. I should have asked you this time… got Bobby to drop us in and pick us up… I _know_ you’d have looked after me.”

“I always will.” Sam told him, still holding his master’s face firmly between his hands. He didn’t want to let go. He really didn’t.

But then his attention was caught by Dean’s left hand as the other finally moved to try and break his hold on him. Or rather… the middle and ring fingers on it. Because now they were swollen to _well_ over twice the size that they should, and the previously damaged, painful-looking burnt flesh was cracked to the point of being shredded apart, oozing red-watery fluid from now open, agonising-looking wounds.

“Shit! _Master!”_ And he was loosening his grip on Dean’s face and instead gently reaching for his hand, not knowing if he should dare touch or not.

He heard the other sigh: “Yeah, they’re broke. I fell hard on my left side as the fucking chair tipped. It and I went _right_ over! I’ve managed to coax them to go back into the right sort of shape but… Bobby’s gonna go nuts at me. He’ll have me chained in that basement for sure! No chance you could sneak me into the house past him, is there, Sammy?” For a minute he looked hopeful. “Just get me the first aid kit and I can strap them up before he sees…”

“He’ll notice the bandages. And what about your ointment: he’s bound to notice then?”

Dean sighed again: “Yeah, I guess… Come on, let’s get it over with. Could… could you push me please?” And the green eyes were glancing across at Sam ruefully as he had no choice but to admit his weakness. Yet _another_ one. “And I _am_ sorry I shouted at you…”

But the smile that the younger man gave him even as he was getting up from his knees and moving to take the handles of the wheelchair, told him that he was forgiven.


	8. Facing an Angry Bobby

“Bobby. _Bobby!_ ” Sam was already shouting for Bobby even as he pushed the chair, and Dean, into the kitchen.

“Yeah?”

“Dean’s fallen! He’s hurt!”

“For…!!!” And Bobby was letting loose with a string of colourful curses even as he was hurrying through to the room. He swore even more when he saw the torn and blood-stained clothes… and the state of Dean’s head, and badly damaged hand _. “_ What the fuck did you _do_ , boy?”

Dean sighed and thought about being flippant, but decided that it probably wouldn’t be a good idea given the angry panic in the old man’s face: that, and the fact that his fingers and back were now throbbing with _agony_. “I was trying to get back in that damned chair after watching the dawn over the mountains. It went over and so did _I_. I’m sorry, Bobby…”

“I’ve told you not to try and stand against that fence, ya idgit, the ground’s not _even_ there!  Why didn’t you use your cell and call for help? I…! _Dawn?!”_ And Bobby was checking his watch. “That must have been h _ours_ ago! Are you telling me you’ve been lying up there all that _time?_ ”

And Sam was suddenly realising: it was already gone nine in the morning, and the sun must have risen at around five… he had been sitting eating breakfast, wasting _time_ … when his master had desperately needed him.

And he wasn’t the only one thinking that.

For the old man was now rounding on _him,_ to vent his anger where he could. “Why the hell weren’t you _with_ him? I brought you for _one_ thing: to take care of him. And where the hell _were_ you? Lazing about in _bed!_ ”

The young man’s eyes were already swimming with moisture: “I’m sorry…” And Dean was also reacting to the accusation: “I don’t _need_ taking care of! I just didn’t think I’d do _that_ …! And I must have left my cell somewhere…”

“Sorry ain’t gonna _cut_ it, boy!” Bobby was having none of it. “And you, ya damn idgit: you obviously _do!_ Look at your head! Look at your _hand!_ If you’re not careful, you’re going to lose the whole thing! From now on, you’re doing as you’re _told!_ _When_ you’re told!

As for _you!_ ” his attention was back on the tear-cheeked Sam. “I better see you _with_ him, every hour of every _day_ from now on! Where-ever _he_ goes, so do _you!_ If he’s in the damned _john_ , then you better be outside the door! Or if you ain’t no _use_ , then you’re going back to the auctions! I didn’t pay for no damned lazy, useless, _good_ -for-nuttin! So you better shape up! Otherwise you’re _gone!_

Now… get him to his room! And back into that _bed_ that I got for him to rest in! I’m gonna get the doc here! And sedate you for the rest of ya _life_ if I have to!”

“Aw, Bobby: there ain’t no need to call _him_ …”

But the other had already stormed out, slamming the door as he went, in a rage of worry.

Behind him, Sam began to cry in earnest as he hastened to obey, despite Dean trying to pull the brake on to stop the wheelchair being moved. “He didn’t mean it, Sam! It’s _me_ he’s mad at… and that’s only cos he’s worried: I should have been more careful. You don’t worry. You ain’t going _anywhere_ ….”

“But he said…”

“I know what he said. And I’m telling you: he didn’t _mean_ it! He’s just upset…”

“Please. I have to get you to _bed!_ ”

“Is that an offer, Sammy?” But the tired grin and attempt at lightening the mood failed miserably: Dean sighed as he saw the misery in the younger man’s face. “Come on,” he sighed, and released his hold on the lever. “I’m sorry I’ve got you in trouble as well.”

And he tried to cover the pain in his hand and his back, and concentrated on behaving as perfectly as he could for Sam as he was taken back to his room.

But once there, Sam was pausing and snivelling as he saw the camp cot now set up opposite the hospital bed. And he recognised the chest of drawers that had been in ‘his’ room only that morning, but was now sitting proudly beside the original one already in situ that held Dean’s meagre belongings. How had Bobby got it down the stairs….? But he _had_.

“You see?” His master informed him. “He don’t mean what he said, Sam. Although I’d have liked to have been _asked_ …”

But he good-naturedly tried to transfer himself onto his bed, although by now he couldn’t bear to touch _anything_ against his hand now… and realised that he was grateful for Sam’s assistance as the other immediately moved to lift him onto it, once more holding him close to his own body with ease. Even as Dean was playing with the controls that adjusted the frame to try to get _some_ position that he could try and convince himself wasn’t agonising, the younger man was undoing his boots for him. “Thanks, Sam.”

Sam couldn’t even look at him. _He_ knew that Bobby was correct: he should have been looking _after_ his master. But then Dean was leaning forward as much as he could while trying to ignore the urge to throw up again, and covering the young man’s long, slender fingers with his own. “It’ll be okay. And _I_ ain’t going to let you go _anywhere!_ ”

This time, he received a watery smile as a response, and the hand tightened in his. He smiled back. Although it quickly faded as Bobby was appearing in the doorway, accompanied by another man. “How the hell did you get here so quick, doc? You got a helicopter or sommat?”

The other man laughed: “I was actually in the neighbourhood, Dean. Just finishing a call down the road when Bobby called! So… What have you been doing to yourself _this_ time?”

“You. Out!” And Bobby was ushering Sam away and closing the door firmly behind him. The slave could only lean against the wall, as near as he could get to the frame, and let himself slide down until he was in a huddled heap on the floor, his long arms wrapped around himself.

It seemed like an age before it opened again and Bobby was emerging. He paused when he saw Sam, and sighed, then carefully moved to sit beside him: grumbling a little as his bones complained with the shock of being down on the musty old carpet in his hallway.

“I’m sorry, boy. It was _me_ that kept you talking this morning! I shouldn’t have said… what I said. I’d _never_ return you to that place…”

And Sam cried again.

He tried to calm down when he felt the old man’s hand tentatively pat his shoulder. “We’re gonna have our work cut out in the next few weeks, he must have _really_ gone over that damned chair! Looks like he’s fractured a couple of ribs… they’re sure as hell bruised deep anyway. _And_ a badly torn-up shin, says he caught it across the base of the wheelchair as it tipped… and those damned fingers! He ain’t gonna be able to move that chair himself for a while: he ain’t gonna be able to do _much_ … but do ya think that’s gonna stop him _trying_ …?

Believe me, boy. It ain’t gonna be much fun!”

They both looked up as the door opened again and the doctor was looking out, seemingly not surprised at all about seeing them both sitting on the floor.

“Okay! He’s all strapped up: I’ve had to use his one remaining good finger as a splint for the others! I’d prefer it if he went to the hospital to confirm what I’m pretty certain _are_ breaks, but he’s refusing. That vertebrae has certainly taken a jolt that it could have done without: you can feel the heat _emanating_ from it, and there’s a definite swelling in the nerves there. I’ve upped the strength of his pain meds… so he’s got to be _careful_ with them, and I’ve given him a cortisone injection that’ll hopefully help right now, so don’t let him have too much sweet stuff for a couple of days… but then, he’s not eating much at the moment, you say, and he’s definitely _looks_ like he’s lost weight. And I’ve written out a prescription for some more antibiotic ointment, and some high nutrient liquid supplements.

Now. Is this the _other_ young man you want me to see….?

Sam stared at him in horror: surely he didn’t mean _him?_ “I… I… I…”

“Let’s get you checked as well, Sam.” And Bobby was squeezing his shoulder reassuringly as he tried to get to his feet. “You’re too thin, and I could see all your scars… let’s just make sure.”

But there was only one way that _anyone_ was looking at Sam. And that was if he were with his _master_.

He was on his feet and through into the bedroom before Bobby had finished standing up, to find Dean moodily resting against the now half-upright bed, trying to struggle back into his t-shirt without having to move his painful back too much, his left hand wrapped fully around with a bandage to give the impression that he was wearing a mitten. “Hey, Sam.”

But the young man was pausing and staring at the still-vivid red and cracked scars that continued from the other’s arm to encroach across the front of his left shoulder and down his chest nearly to the left nipple: an otherwise strong, muscled, _ripped_ chest and abdomen that was as covered with old wounds as Sam’s own was.

He immediately felt ashamed once again… here _he_ was, upset and anxious about being seen by a mere doctor, when Dean had gone through all of _this_. “Let me help.”

And he was gently helping his master get dressed, although he couldn’t help from whispering: “He wants to examine _me_ now.”

“Good idea.” And Dean was smiling tiredly at him and easing himself back down to the mattress. “It’ll put my mind at rest to know you’re okay.”

“Can… can I stay in here with you while he does?”

The green eyes had briefly closed as the cortisone began to kick in and the pain momentarily intensified, just as the doctor had warned him it might, but they… and another smile… were flashed Sam’s way. And Dean’s right hand was reaching out in his direction, albeit it a little blindly now, as he tried to fight off a wave of nausea: _shit_ , that stuff hurt! His fingers felt something, he wasn’t quite sure what for a moment, then he realised… it was the belt loops of Sam’s denims! Around his _waist!_ Shit, he had stretched out _far_ too far!

But even as he tried to pull his hand away, Sam was turning his body somehow to tangle Dean’s fingers where they were… and as his master withdrew his hand… so the younger man moved with it, approaching the other as smoothly as if attracted by a magnet. Groin first.

Dean felt his whole face flush red right through to the tips of his ears as Sam’s large, strong fingers caught his even as he managed to untwist them from the loops, and hold them where they were, against the small of his back, while his front was all but pressed against Dean where he lay in the bed. “Please, master…. Please don’t let go of me.” His voice was a whisper.

“It’s _Dean_.” But his sigh was mixed with a smile. “Okay, doc.” As the other man returned into the room. “Let’s get on with Sam’s examination. But I’m gonna be here the whole time.” He shifted uncomfortably as he spoke, was that fucking medication _eve_ r going to kick in? and added with a grumble…”Course, I don’t think I can go too far _else_ at the moment…”

He felt his cheeks redden even more as Sam removed his shirts, but he made himself keep his hand against Sam’s warm back as the young man had pleaded for him to… and then he felt the other start to physically tremble as the doctor began to approach. Sam almost collapsed with relief as Dean’s whole arm slid fully around his waist to hold him tight… and he in turn gripped his master’s hand hard in gratitude.

And then _he_ blushed as the doctor was giving him a knowing look, and being more gentle examining him than anyone else had ever been in his whole life.

But both master and slave were relieved when the medic had finished and Sam could redress: “Sam’s in fairly good condition, considering.  He needs feeding up, but then you already know that. But otherwise… he’s in good health. Take care of each other.” Then he had gone.

And Dean was finally getting some relief from the agony in his back as the cortisone injection began to start working: he hadn’t wanted to admit it to Bobby, but it had been hurting _nearly_ as bad since it had woken him during the previous night, as it had in the hospital immediately after the accident.

“You reckon you could eat sommat, boy? Sorry, I mean ‘boys’!” Bobby was knocking on the doorframe.

“Please, Bobby. And… what time are we going this afternoon….?”

“This afternoon, boy?”

“Our… ’appointment’, Bobby.” And Sam was looking down at his master in surprise: neither other man had mentioned that they were going out… but then… why _should_ they have had to him?

The old man snorted: “ _You_ ain’t going _anywhere!_ You’re _resting!_ _And_ staying where I can _see_ ya! And I’ll be having words with that Jonah for being such a damned _useless_ idgit: fancy _pulling_ you out of the car… I could _skin_ him. Nah: I called and rearranged this afternoon...”

“Oh.” And Dean seemed genuinely disappointed.

Sam wondered why… until later that day when a blonde woman in a truck turned up at Bobby’s: a truck decorated with the logo of a mobile blacksmith. And his master, who by this time had managed to get himself off the bed and back into the wheelchair, despite both the others' protestations, was eagerly out of the door to greet her, (the chair, of course, being propelled by Sam-power.)

“Sandy! What are _you_ doing here?  I… Did Bobby get you to come to _us?_ I…so _that’s_ what he meant… _thanks!_ ”

“Well, he said your back was troubling you again, so it’s the least I could do… if I want your business, that is!”

“Sam! Can you help a mo?”

And the younger man was stepping forward to help unload a couple of boxes and carry them into the kitchen.

“I’ve brought all the ones I’ve got that matched the measurements you rang me with… now let’s get this one off.” And she was producing a key that… unlocked Sam’s collar.

“For…!” And Bobby was swearing at the sight of the raw, sore, trapped flesh beneath it as it was removed. “Here. Let’s get some ointment on that while Dean chooses you a new one.”

“Not _me!_ ” The other was looking straight at Sam. “If you _have_ to wear one, then you should at least get to _pick!_ ”

“Me!” Sam’s voice was a squeak. And he was staring incredulously at the boxes which contained… new collars. Lots of them.

Wide ones that would engulf just about all of his neck, and narrow ones that looked almost dainty; ones made from light, pliable metals, with smoothed edges and soft linings, in every imaginable colour and style; others made seemingly from tough leather, again in numerous colours, but Sam could vouch from previous experience that they had toughened wire put through that could cut in to the skin if pulled back on aggressively enough….

Some were made from strong plastic. Some were formed from cold, rough heavy metal that made him shudder just from looking. There were some with built-in rings for leads and chains… and some that had studs… or even _spikes_ all around.

And all had locks.

“You’ll have the keys, Dean. You can change them around if you want.”

“The keys?”

“The slave has to have a collar on and locked by law when they’re in public. The auction-house had to put just a standard one on, but I’m licensed to remove them. From now on, you’ll keep the key yourself. Or keys, if you want more than one.”

“But…”And Dean was trying to think this through. “Does he have to wear one in _private?_ I mean… when he’s _here?_ ”

“You’re the owner, Dean. It’s your decision. But he _has_ to in public, or else he might be accused of trying to abscond, and that’s serious. Most owners… well, good ones… just have a comfortable collar that the slave can wear all the time, and not take the risk.”

“ _That!_ ” And Sam was interrupting. “I need to wear one, master… Dean. I _want_ to… I don’t want to be in trouble. Or for _you_ to get in trouble.” Then he was reddening as he realised that he had just spoken out of turn.

Again.

 _And_ in front of someone from outside the family.

 _Shit_.

But Dean didn’t care. “You sure, Sam? You don’t need to, not _here_ …”

“I want to, master. And I want _you_ to choose it.” And he was blushing even more as Dean suddenly beamed that incredible, sexy smile at him.

“It might be worth having two,” Sandy advised them. “Sometimes even a comfortable one can rub… through sweat, or a bit of grit or sand gets beneath it… or even more!”

“Okay, that seems sensible. We pick one each. Sam?”

“That one.” And the young man was reaching for the one that had immediately caught his attention amongst all the others: it was slim and made of a light but strong metal, with padding inside and in a soft shade of meadow-spring green. “Please,” he added quickly.

“Your favourite colour, huh?” And Dean was motioning to him to hand it to Sandy, who caught Sam’s eye with a smirk and a knowing glance in his master’s direction… and those amazing, _perfectly_ matching, green eyes.

Sam remained red in the face, but he forced himself to answer Dean’s question even as the woman moved to check the fit around his neck: “I didn’t realise, but it definitely is.”

Dean also decided to get a near flesh-coloured collar that ‘wouldn’t be as noticeable should you ever need to wear a suit, Sam’, and a strong-looking but surprisingly supple dark brown leather one. “That one’d look good… how much do I owe you, Sandy?”

“You shifted that poltergeist from my house, Dean: you saved my daughter’s life. No charge. Not to you.”

And Sam blinked… _what_ had she just said?

But then his attention was being focused on the green collar as the blacksmith reached to strap it around his now soothed with ointment neck… and lock it in place. He quickly jerked his head back out of the way, and panicked as he realised that he was probably going to be punished for such an open act of defiance:  “I’m sorry, mistr…erm….Sandy. But… I hoped that mas… _Dean_ would put it on for me…”

To his tremendous relief, the blonde didn’t even seem to notice his rudeness but just smiled at him: “Yes, of course.”

And she was handing the collar to the older man, who frowned. “I hate having to do this. And to be honest… I can’t.”

“Gotta be done, Dean,” Bobby told him as he rinsed and dried his hands. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that crack about the suit. Whatever it is you’re envisaging for the future… get it out of your head! You ain’t getting that _boy_ into trouble: you get in to quite enough of your _own!_ ”

“Aw, Bobby. You know as well as I do… that you just never _know_ ….!” And Dean was smiling across at the old man, although his eyes were now starting to give away the fact that he was in pain again: from his damaged back, or his broken fingers, or his ribs. Or all three.

Bobby snorted fondly: “Idgit.”

“But… seriously… I _can’t_.” And Dean was holding up his bandaged hand and trying unsuccessfully to wriggle his fingers to demonstrate their present lack of usability.

“Yah need your meds, boy?” The old man was getting to his feet.

“Please, Bobby.”

But Sam was already across the room at the cupboard that Bobby had put them in as soon as he had returned with the prescriptions that afternoon, and returning just as quickly to bring them to his master. Then to the other’s embarrassment, he was kneeling at his feet to hand them, and a glass of water, over. “Sam! Don’t you _ever_ do that: for god’s sake, get up!”

“Please will you lock my collar on for me? I… It would feel _right_ if you did… _please_.”

And he was pleading with his eyes again. And Dean was cussing at him, but trying to reach forward enough to place the slim, pliable metal around his neck one-handed anyway, then somehow managing to hold it in position enough with his sore fingers until he could get the key turned in the small lock: the slave leaning up and into his body helpfully, one hand resting on Dean’s right thigh to support himself. “There... I _think_ … just check that for me, will ya, Bobby? At least I suppose it looks good. Nice choice on the colour, Sam. Is it hurting your neck: what about those sores?”

“It’s fine. Thank you, _master_ … Dean!” He hastily corrected himself as the other’s eyes glinted at him momentarily.

”At least that’s done. You staying for a coffee, Sandy? Or sommat to eat? I was going to get something for these two anyway…”

That’d be great, Bobby.” And the conversation turned away from slaves, and collars, and injuries, and instead became about idgits without the brains they were born with, and friends, and cars, and football.

And if none of the others noticed that Sam _hadn’t_ moved from his position on the floor and was actually now leaning quietly against his master’s right leg, his hand still resting lazily as high as he dared on the other’s denimed leg without risking making him feel uncomfortable… but enough to make the younger man _achingly_ aware of the warm firm flesh beneath…. well then, he wasn’t going to draw it to their attention.

 


	9. Settling In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE THAT I DO NOT MEAN TO CONDONE RAPE IN ANY WAY BY WRITING THIS.  
> IT IS AN ABHORRENT ACT: AN ACT OF VIOLENCE AND CONTROL, NOTHING TO DO WITH SEX AT ALL.  
> BUT I HAVE INCLUDED IT’S MENTION IN THIS… BECAUSE IT IS TO DO WITH SAM...  
> AND THIS IS HIS STORY

“Hey boy. Enjoy your run?”

And Sam was looking around at the old man and nodding with a wide smile as he entered the kitchen through the back door. Dean glanced up from where he was seated at the table, a food processor that he had been asked by one of Jodie’s friends to repair in front of him, and grunted a welcome before returning to his work.

“Go’on and get changed. Want some coffee?” Bobby already had an empty mug in his hand, ready to fill it.

 “I’m good for the moment thanks, Bobby. Okay if I take a shower?”

“You don’t keep needin’ to _ask_ , boy…” And he was shaking his head with fond exasperation even as Sam’s dimples deepened and the young man was slipping past him and through the door. “Idgit.”

Once in the hallway, Sam paused as he was about to go into their… the bedroom that his master let him sleep in as well, and glanced around him.

No one was watching.

He took the chance to lift his sweat-stained t-shirt to be able to examine his abdomen and chest in the large hallway mirror… and smiled with satisfaction.

He was starting to look good again.

He was starting to look _fit_ again. He was beginning to look _ripped_.

These last two months he had put weight on again, enough to once more cover his ribs.

And his wonderful master had allowed him to start running again. It had taken him some time to build up the nerve to ask if he could, but to his complete amazement, the only concern had seemed to be whether his cheap sneakers were good enough to use. And in fact, Bobby had _encouraged_ him to, just as an escape from what the old man considered the tedium of Sam having to be with Dean near enough twenty-four seven.

Not that Sam saw being with Dean in that way at _all_.

But now every single day, come rain or shine, found Sam running around the inside of the perimeter of Bobby’s yard and land… he would have loved to be able to risk leaving the sanctuary of the fence, but, unfortunately wearing a collar didn’t mean that slaves weren’t occasionally snatched off the streets, even when going about their master’s business, and beaten up for ‘obviously absconding’, or raped, or worse… and it meant so _much_ to him.

For not only because he was being allowed to work the tension in his body off for the sheer enjoyment of it, which was all but _unheard_ of for a slave, but also… the _trust_ shown in him by Dean and Bobby: to allow him to leave the house and just… _run_.

He was now up to going three times without stopping around the miles-long boundary, and Bobby had helped him create some weights from scrapped items they had found, to give himself an exercise regime that he did as often as he could.

And his hard work was starting to pay off. The mirror was revealing the results.

For he felt good. And he could see that he _looked_ good…

If only he could get someone _else_ to notice…

Just once.

His muscles were toning up, there was a definite six pack forming. And his hip bones were no longer sticking out too prominently as if to prove his previously painful existence, but had begun to instead form perfect shadows against his abdomen that seductively invited anyone that might be looking at him to follow the ‘V’ down his body as it disappeared into the front of his jogging pants…

He hadn’t realised how much it had _mattered_ to him, not being able to take care of his health as he would have if he’d been allowed the chance. The years of simply being worried about surviving until the next day… of perhaps even starving to death… Sam hadn’t realised that he had once been so _proud_ of how he had looked.

Because it had made him feel like… somebody. An ordinary person.

Somebody _normal_.

People… well, Mistress Ruby and her friends… had looked at him with admiration.

And he hadn’t realised how much it had _hurt_ to have had that taken away: to have _everything_ forcibly taken from him.

But healthy… _ish_ food, and regular meal times… and lots of hard work… were starting to pay off. These last two months…

These last two months that Sam wouldn’t change for anything. Not a single damn thing.

Well… only the one thing. There was _one_ thing that he would change.

If he could only work up the nerve…

“Finished posing yet, boy?”

The young man started and quickly dropped the hem of the shirt as his face flushed red at the sight of the old man standing and watching him with amusement. “Sorry, Bobby.”

“What for. Boy? You’re finally starting to fill out, that’s good to see: you were so thin when I got’cha that I’d thought you’d blow away. Just you remember to stand tall, though, son: you show _off_ that height. You’ve got no need to hide it… not from _anyone_. Not anymore.”

“Okay, Bobby.” The other looked at him and decided that the slave’s grin couldn’t have got any wider. He couldn’t contain his own chuckle at him. Nor his pride. The boy had been everything that he could have hoped for…

… and so much more besides.

“You _going_ to have a shower, boy?”

“You saying I need one?”

“Not in so many words… but your pits are soaked with sweat and you definitely _stink_.” And Sam proved him wrong by revealing even deeper dimples than Bobby would have believed possible.

He was laughing with him even as he started to go upstairs to fetch his wallet. “I’ve got to go out for a while to run a few errands in town. That food processor for Mrs Johnston should keep Dean busy for a while… well…”

“I’ll be real quick, sir.”

“I know you will, boy.” And Sam was hurrying past him up the stairs to get into the bathroom. Bobby stood to one side and watched him go with genuine affection. The young man was family.

Had been right from the start.

Sam caught the sound of Bobby’s truck engine starting up even as he plunged his whole body beneath the soothing warm water of the shower, and instinctively hurried so as to get back down to the kitchen.

Just in case.

Bobby had been perfectly accurate when he had predicted that they would both have their work cut out with Dean since his accident in the yard. It wasn’t that he _meant_ to keep doing things that worried them both but… his master definitely had the knack of getting into trouble!

And Sam had realised extremely _quickly_ that… Dean didn’t like having to _ask_ for help; he didn’t like being _offered_ help; he didn’t like having to _accept_ help… and he _really_ didn’t like something being done for him. Even if it was something that, with an all but broken back, broken fingers and probably fractured ribs that he was completely _unable_ to do himself.

And his master had called _Sam_ stubborn!

Although the young man could understand. Even though he himself had far too often been worked to total exhaustion and had often prayed to be allowed to rest: the thought of suddenly _not_ being able to do anything for himself, of having to rely on other people… of facing the possibility of life in a wheelchair… he didn’t know how Dean had managed to deal with that.

But… he had certainly kept them both on their toes!

Even as Sam slathered his hair with shampoo, he couldn’t help but smile as he thought about his master…

And how, even though Dean had obviously been in a lot of constant pain since the accident in the yard, he had never lost his temper with Sam. Not once.

 _And_ Dean always had time for the younger man: he may have grumbled at him… a _lot_ … for ‘following Bobby’s instruction’s rather than his’, and for being ‘outright bloody-minded and downright fucking obstinate: what on earth had he _ever_ done to deserve getting saddled with someone as fucking pig-headed, what _had_ Bobby been thinking?… but he had never really got angry. And certainly never enough to have _ever_ given Sam cause to fear him.

In fact, Sam was confident enough to be sure… nearly… that Dean would _never_ hurt him. Or _anyone_ , come to that. Because the way his master took care of him, the young man was ready to swear that it just wasn’t _in_ Dean to deliberately hurt anything, _despite_ how tough he acted and talked.

And he would argue that with _anyone_ who dared to say otherwise.

Although he and his master had had a few… disagreements… during the last few weeks...

And Dean and Bobby had had some outright heated _arguments._

But even his stubborn master had been reduced to silence at the realisation of just how much he had scared both of the others just a few days after his accident in the yard. Until then, Dean had been desperately trying to prove to himself that he could be independent… if he could just _will_ it to happen enough.

And the thing that he resented _most_ , albeit irrationally, was the wheelchair that had been the cause of the incident, _and_ the one thing that he really was unable to manage on his own. He just couldn’t get enough of a grip with his damaged hand to be able to manoeuvre it and propel it forward at the same time, so he _had_ to ask one of the other two men to push it… and him… even if he just wanted to go through the relatively level ground floor of the house to get to his own bedroom or the downstairs restroom.

Dean hated that he had to rely on them both with a _vengeance_. He was _determined_ to escape being defined by the chair.

So he had pushed himself far more than he should have, hauling himself out from its confines at every opportunity despite the protests of Bobby and Sam… and trying to pretend that his broken fingers could take his weight. (They couldn’t, and he could _feel_ that they couldn’t.)

And, in return for the first few days’ worth of far too much abuse, his body had complained, winced and _hurt_ far more than it already did… and he had swallowed two extra, ‘in-between, but vital’ capsules of the maximum strength pain killers that the doctor had prescribed, to try and block out the agony of his spine every time he jarred it again by over-reaching, or twisting against what it was capable of doing, or trying to force it to obey him by sheer determination…

And then, because his back _still_ was so intensely painful that he felt he would throw up at any moment… he had taken a couple more…

Sam had thought Dean had just fallen asleep in the wheelchair: the young man had smiled at seeing him, still at the kitchen table where he had been working on his laptop for something that Bobby had asked for help with, his head resting awkwardly over the back of the headrest. He had softly moved the chair, and its contents, to the downstairs bedroom with the intention of transferring his master to the more comfortable hospital bed.

It was only as he leant to pick the sleeping man up that he had noticed how cold and clammy his master’s skin felt against him, and how pale he looked, and how slow his breathing seemed to be…

And he couldn’t get Dean to wake up.

That had been the single worst thing that Sam felt had _ever_ happened to him in his whole _life_. He would have taken _any_ amount of beatings rather than lose his beautiful new master. He had shouted to Bobby in a near hysterical panic, and the old man had raced into the room to find the slave knelt in a tearful heap on the floor, with Dean all but lifeless in his arms.

“Balls!” And Bobby was calling the doctor even as he was frantically counting the number of tablets there were left… and working out how many there _should_ have been. “Keep trying to get through to him, Sam. Try and get him awake. Don’t you fret now, boy: he’s gonna be _fine_. He’s gonna be fine…”

Dean had eventually woken a few hours later to find himself in a hospital bed, connected to numerous bleeping monitors and wearing an oxygen mask, and what was _worse_ … there was an intravenous drip connected to a huge _needle_ that was embedded into his arm….

Dean _hated_ needles.

His fingers had been re-broken and set properly in a solid (pink) cast so that he couldn’t continue to misuse them. The split, sore skin down his arm and hand had been debrided… which _hurt_ … a _lot_ … and all but saturated with soothing antibiotic cream to try and stop the infection that had got into it after the accident in the yard, from spreading, and was wrapped up with the promise of daily injections for at least a week. His broken ribs had been x-rayed and securely strapped. And he was being threatened with a long-term stay in hospital: complete with enforced, motionless, _flat_ , bed-rest, until the spasms in his spine had eventually calmed down.

 _And_ there was a psychiatrist waiting to see him to talk through his state of mind…

But even all _that_ had paled into insignificance as he took in the angry but worried face of Bobby. And the tear-streaked, red-rimmed-eyed, ashen-coloured sheer misery in Sam’s...

He didn’t argue, once he had managed to convince the hospital that it had definitely been an accident and he _wasn’t_ a suicide risk, when Sam had physically taken every single item of medication away from him once they had got home and declared that _he_ was damned well looking after it from now on, no matter _what_ his master said.

He didn’t argue when Bobby had slipped a set of handcuffs around his bandaged left arm to secure him to the wheelchair and whispered in his ear that he would do the ‘same with the right one if he had to, ya dang idgit, now you just stay in that goddamned chair or _else_..’.

He didn’t even argue when, finally unshackled and in the privacy of their room that night, Sam had all but collapsed, as his relief that Dean was actually alright and not dying as he had first thought, was overtaken by his sudden terrified realisation that the loss of his new master _in his care_ , meant that he would _definitely_ be returned to the auctions as completely worthless…

He had gotten so hysterical as the two emotions warred and washed over him that he had literally fallen to his knees and sobbed into his master’s lap… and eventually it was Dean who had somehow gotten them both up onto the single bed and had held Sam tightly until the young man had cried himself to sleep.

Although by the morning, it was the master who lay in the slave’s arms…

Dean had behaved himself for nearly a week… which, as Bobby later thoughtfully commented to Sam, _should_ have made them suspicious earlier… but then one morning the young slave had returned from the bathroom and caught his master standing leaning precariously against the kitchen counter supported by one hand, while trying to fetch down a brand new pack of coffee from the top cupboard with the solid (pink) plaster mitten that presently passed for his left hand.

Sam had literally roared at Dean in anger and leapt forward, catching him instinctively as the other man startled from surprise and nearly fell sideways, before snatching him up physically in his arms to deposit his master back firmly back into the wheelchair.

He was so furious that, without even thinking about it, he had sat his full weight across Dean’s legs to make sure that the older man _couldn’t_ try to get up again: “What are you _thinking?_ You should have _called_ me! That’s what I’m _here_ for! Are you _trying_ to get me into trouble with Mr… with Bobby again, master? Because if you fall, then he’ll blame _me!_ ”

“He won’t. He _wouldn’t_. I just…”

“What? _What_ , master?”

But Sam’s rage died as suddenly as it had ignited as he saw the genuine misery in the green eyes before they were looking away, unable to meet his momentarily. “I just wanted to make you both coffee. I can’t _do_ anything, Sammy. I just thought perhaps I could do _that_ , and then there wasn’t enough left… I’m sorry. I was being careful. _Really_ I was.”

He was surprised… but not as much as Sam was at himself when he dared to move his hand to tilt Dean’s chin up, slouching a little in his position on his master’s lap to bring their faces closer together until they were staring straight at each other from mere inches apart… “I couldn’t bear it if you hurt yourself again, master. Please let me help. Not because I _have_ to but because I _want_ to.

He bit his lower lip and reddened slightly: “I really like _being_ with you, master.”

And the other had smiled a watery smile up at him: “I like having you around as well… But I hate being useless, Sam. If I can’t do _anything_ … then what good am I at all…? To _anyone_ …?”

“You don’t _have_ to be useful, master. That’s why you have _me!_ All you have to do is concentrate on getting better… and you _are_ , master. Every _day_ you are! And look! I can _help_ you… if you’ll let me!”

By now Sam was getting embarrassed as the reality sunk in of what he was doing: sitting on his master’s lap... again, holding his face tightly yet _again_ … Desperately he looked around the kitchen and his eyes alighted on the unused, if the recently washed clothes airing on it were discounted, walking frame in the corner. He was on his feet to fetch it and place it in front of the wheelchair in the next instant.

“Here, master. You’re helping me to learn to read: _I_ can help you to learn to walk again. Up!”

“What?”

“ _Up!_ Please, master,” he added hastily as Dean stirred incredulously up at him, but didn’t move… “ _Now!_ ”

And he was all but pulling Dean up out of the chair by his good arm, and immediately wrapping his hands tightly around his master to support him as the older man definitely wobbled once up on his own feet and grasped at the frame for support.

“I don’t think I can do this, Sam.”

“You can, master. You can do _anything_ : I _know_ you can.”

“No. I mean…” And Dean was tapping the hard cast that surrounded all but the very tips of the fingers on his left hand against the cold metal. “I can’t grip it. And…” he sighed as he finally had no choice but to admit the helplessness he was feeling… “I don’t think… I can’t…” Another sigh, a _deep_ one. “I’m not _safe_ doing this, Sam. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, master. And you _can_ … because _I’m_ here.” Even as he was speaking, Sam was stepping to stand directly behind the older man, pressing against his back so closely that Dean could feel the warmth from the slave’s body as it surrounded his, right down his _whole_ length, and leaning around enough to wrap his large left hand around the frame himself, while his right arm still kept a tight protective grasp around his master’s waist. “I won’t let you fall: I’d _never_ do that. Up the hall and back: that’s what your physiotherapists said, isn’t it?

One step at a time, master. When you’re ready.”

Even as the older man was sighing and obeying, Sam just about caught the mutter from beneath his breath: “I keep telling you, it’s _Dean!_ ”

Sam rinsed his hair and reached for the shower gel even while he was reliving every moment of every painful but wonderful step that he had helped Dean take…

He had made his master do the exercises twice a day: _sometimes_ he had got away with ordering, usually he had had to plead, or simply nag at Dean to do it… or _Bobby_ had nagged at him to do it. But the crippled man had actually started to use the frame as he had been advised to, and once his hand had healed enough for the cast to be removed and he could start to be able to grip it himself, he kept on practising, with the young slave always behind him in case he fell.

Although Sam couldn’t help from being a little disappointed every single time that Dean stepped forward without him…

His hands paused from rubbing the soapy solution onto his chest, now barely aware of his own firm torso beneath his fingers…

Sam had never felt desire towards men. As a boy, with the family that he had grown up with, he remembered being anxious and nervous around one of the other slaves: a teenage girl who Sam had liked very, _very_ much. If his life had been different…. If he had been _free_ and not a slave… then he would have hoped to perhaps have married. Maybe even have children. The idea that he might have sex with a _man_ , was… certainly when he was younger… frankly abhorrent.

And then, with Mistress Ruby and her friends, Sam had been _definite_ that he was straight. Because he _really_ enjoyed having sex with women… and his tiny brunette beauty of an owner had certainly trained him well, in _all_ aspects, and had lent him to her friends on numerous occasions, with all of them reporting back to his proud mistress that they had been _extremely_ happy to be with him…

But it had all changed the moment she had sold him.

Sam had _never_ felt such pain as the first time he had been raped. He had screamed in agony, and cried, really _sobbe_ d, and begged for it to stop, and had lain huddled into himself from misery, and self-disgust, and disbelief that such a thing could have happened, for a long time after it had finished… He never thought that anybody could _do_ something like that to another human being… even a slave… and he had never felt such mortification… or so _helpless_ in his whole life…

Although… with hindsight, he had realised that that was actually only the _second_ most humiliating thing that had ever been done to him…

Sam just couldn’t think why his new master would enjoy doing that to him. For control, he had supposed. For the power that the bastard thought that it would give him… just the threat of it…

To keep Sam in line.

But then, as he had recovered… or at least, his _body_ had recovered… and it had happened again. And again. And he had seen _other_ male slaves also be raped. And female slaves. And they had all just seemed to… get on with it… so Sam had gradually realised…

That it wasn’t _about_ power, or control, or even as a threat or a punishment…

Instead… It… _Rape_ … was being done because the masters, and their families, and their friends, and their business associates, and anybody else that they decided to allow access to the bodies of their living possessions did it… simply because they _could_.

The thoughts, the pain, the degradation, the _shame_ of the slaves didn’t matter, wasn’t important. Because the _slaves_ didn’t matter: they weren’t important.

And what was _done_ to them didn’t matter. Whether it was done from violence, or lust, or power, or _because_ … it didn’t matter.

They were nothings.

 _Sam_ was nothing.

He either learnt to live with being raped or he didn’t… but it was going to happen again anyway… it could, and it would, and it _did_. Because Sam was nothing more than a living hole, to be used and then beaten.

That was probably the only surety that Sam _had_ in his life… other than he would die a slave.

So Sam had grown used to hands all over him. To being held down. To being _tied_ down. To being groped. And forced to do things that he had originally found disgusting and gross. And used. And the only way he had managed to deal with most of it, was to just…close his mind and let it all just happen… and do what he was told in the hope that it would soon be over.

So he had tried to learn to live with it. Only _then_ to have done to him what he later was to decide, was the _single_ most humiliating, mortifying, shameful thing that he could ever have known…

Because his then master had gleefully set out to make his own _body_ turn against him… and _enjoy_ being raped. He had taken his time with him, stroking and pleasuring the slave, even as Sam had whimpered and begged and pleaded beneath him for it to be over … and had gotten aroused despite the wrong of what was being done to him… tormented and driven wild by what the man was _doing_ to him…

His master had kept on until Sam had come all over himself with a series of choked and tear-filled moans…

He had wanted to _die_ from misery and shame.

But the bastard had thought it amusing. He had laughed at Sam, mocking him for being so unable to control himself: jeering at him for allowing the instrument that was his own body to be played by somebody else. And he had set out, _every_ time from then, to make sure that Sam came as well.

The only blessing to it was that Sam had learnt that lubricant makes an awful lot of difference, and being prepared by skilful fingers… even if your own are manacled together by the wrists and held above your head… can actually make the act of male sex tolerable… endurable… eventually pleasurable.

Even though he _hated_ himself for finding it so…

Sam had _never_ looked at a man and found them desirable. He had never felt arousal for another male, he never would.

Or at least, he had _thought_ he never would…

But these last two months, since that very first night since he had arrived at Bobby’s… Sam had dreamt of stunning green eyes… of an amazingly ripped if heavily scarred body… of a rarely used but incredibly sexy smile that made his stomach flip every time he thought about it…

Sam caught his breath with a sigh and a gasp… and realised that he was stroking himself in the shower… again.

Because he was thinking about Dean.

Again.

He was so hard just from the thought of his master that he had no choice but to finish. Sam closed his eyes and continued to caress up and down his long and fully hard cock slowly as he tried to imagine… what Dean would taste like, coming down his throat? What would he feel like, thrusting into his mouth?

Would he force Sam down on his knees… although Sam would take hardly _any_ forcing. He wondered if he dare go downstairs and get on his knees in front of the wheelchair right now…

Although… his master would find it more incredible if he could stand as Sam sucked him: certainly his other masters had preferred it that way. And Sam had had more than enough experience by now to know how to make it _incredible_. Perhaps he could get Dean to support himself against something solid while Sam pleasured him: the kitchen cupboards ? Or the solid chest of drawers in their… Dean’s room that he was allowed to share…

Or would Dean just prefer to fuck him? One night… perhaps even _that_ night... he might look at Sam and order him to get into his bed… and Sam would go without hesitation…

He would let his master do _anything_ to him.

What would Dean’s hands feel like against Sam’s skin: would he be gentle? Sam knew that his master would never hurt him, but would he caress Sam all over? Oh God, Sam _wanted_ his master’s hands all over him!

Or would he be masterful and dominant, and hold the young man down: would he pin him to the bed, or the floor, and just take him from behind, filling Sam up with pleasurable heat until he exploded from ecstacy?

Or perhaps, like that other man, Dean would want to see Sam’s face? Not to torment him by laughing at his misery when he was forced to come against his will… but to watch his pleasure…? Perhaps Dean would lay Sam on his back, cover him with his own body and… make love to him? Perhaps even kiss him?

What would Dean’s lips taste like? They looked so perfect, especially when they were smiling.

They were perfect. _He_ was perfect. What would his mouth taste like? Would he let Sam kiss him?

Sam so _wanted_ to kiss him.

He was imagining the feel of Dean’s lips against his even as he was gasping his master’s name aloud and coming all over the tiled wall with such force that his knees almost buckled beneath him. Again.

Not for the first time, Sam wondered if he dare just go to Dean right now, when they were alone: just go downstairs, naked and dripping, and offer himself to him. He could kneel at the man’s feet, and _beg_ for him to take him. What would Dean do?

Or… what if he sat in Dean’s lap like he had done a couple of times before… just as he was…without a stitch of clothing on and already rock hard again. What if he draped himself across his master, tilted Dean’s head back and just _kissed_ him?

He wished he could dare.

Sam so _wanted_ to dare.

But… just like every other day since he had arrived here, he knew he wouldn’t. Because … no matter how close he deliberately stood to his master, or let his shirts flop loose so that his newly defined muscles were exposed, or got undressed in the bedroom and bumped his ass ‘unintentionally’ against a resolutely turned away Dean, or knelt by the wheelchair with his head resting against the other man’s legs, head tilted so his lips were just _there_ … or those few occasions that the older man had just got so _exhausted_ from all the pain and Sam had insisted on carrying him securely in his arms back to the hospital bed so his master could try and sleep, and he had actually managed to settle himself on it beside him because Dean was just too tired to argue, and he had held him tightly, relishing the feel of having the smaller man in his arms… in all of _that_ …

… he had never seen Dean look at him in any way other than innocent…

What if Dean just didn’t _want_ him in that way?

Even as Sam mentally fought down his next erection, he was reflecting that it would just be so _unfair_ , and so ironically typical, if the _only_ man that he was actually lusting after… the only man he had ever wanted to touch him in _every_ way… didn’t feel the same way back. 

He had nearly given in to his impulse to kiss Dean _so_ many times.

And never more so than when the parcel had arrived.

Dean had called him into the kitchen one morning, pointing at a package that was on the table.

Sam had wandered across to look at it with a mixture of surprise and wonder: “Sam W…eye…nnn…cchhh… Winechest… Winchester. Sam Winchester.  Sam Winchester?”

He was turning back to his master with his eyebrows raised, even as Bobby almost all but squeaked in surprise.

“I couldn’t have it sent to just ‘Sam’. I hope that’s okay.” Dean explained. “Open it up!”

Even as Sam was tearing into the wrapping and exclaiming with excitement as the pile of elementary level academic books and software, in just about every different subject he could _think_ of, was exposed, Bobby was leaning in to Dean, his words soft: “You okay with using the name Sam Winchester? You could have used Singer, I wouldn’t have minded, boy. I know… what that name _means_ …

“The name was going begging, Bobby.”

The abruptness in the response made the old man’s eyebrows raise, but he gave a little nod and moved away, leaving the kitchen through the door just behind where Dean was sitting. But not without a glance at Sam first.

The younger man understood and moved until he was knelt in front of Dean’s wheelchair, resting his large hands on his master’s knees: “Get up, Sam! I hate it when you do that!”

But his order was ignored as the slave stayed where he was. “I… know about... the other Sam, master. I asked Bobby who he was. Thank you for letting me use his name. Are you sure, though? He was… He must have meant a lot to you… ”

He was a little surprised by the expression on Dean’s face: a mixture of genuine sorrow and… something else that sparked in the green eyes. And the grunt with which he was answered. “What he meant to me? Wanna know what he meant, Sam? For so long… I hated him. Hated even hearing his name. Hated my own baby brother for being so lucky… so lucky because he got to _die_ while I… _I_ had to fucking go on _living_.”

Sam didn’t know what to say. But he caught a glimpse of Bobby, who was still standing behind his master, just out of the wheelchair bound man’s view… And the pain in his face at Dean’s admission.

But Dean was continuing: “But… dad’s gone. Everything’s changed. Time to let go of that as well. And it’ll be…” His voice momentarily faltered, “It’ll be nice to connect the name Sam Winchester with…”

“With, master?”

And Dean was going red in the face. “With a smile.” His blush deepened at the younger man’s raised eyebrows. ”Y _our_ smile.  And a face. It’ll be good to think of Sam Winchester as… _you_. If that’s okay with you?”

And Sam was reaching up to kiss him… until he realised that Bobby was still watching, and that his master…might… _not_ like it if he did.

But he had so wanted to. And he so wished he _had_.

Sam finished pulling on his clothes ready to return downstairs. He just couldn’t _believe_ how wonderful his life had become since Bobby had bought him, he _should_ be thankful.

He was healthy, for the first time in a long time. He had food in his stomach and he was allowed to exercise again.

He was being allowed to learn! He had already worked his way through all of the educational aids and Dean had helped him order a few more to High School level. Sam was so excited: he just wanted to know everything about… _everything!_

He was so _happy._

And Dean had even talked Bobby into taking them back to the bar, all three of them, even Sam, and his master had allowed him to have alcohol… which Sam had hated the taste of but that hadn’t mattered in the slightest. Although he had had to fight down his rage as Jonah and Mo had come across, somewhat sheepishly, to apologise to Dean and buy them all another drink… Bobby had gently put his hand on his arm as a warning, but he still wanted to hurt them both permanently for what they had done to _his_ master, accident or _not_.

But then other people had joined them at the table, and there had been a lot of noise and banter and he had got to see Dean really _laugh_ , which was almost as wonderful as that sexy smile… he wanted to make him laugh again, over and over… to keep that happiness in his master’s eyes…

Yes, Sam should just be grateful for what he had…

But even as he heard Dean’s deep gravelly voice shouting for him downstairs and his body responded with every long inch of eagerness as it had when thinking about him in the shower, Sam _knew_.

He _loved_ his master, truly _loved_ him.

He never wanted to leave him: he knew he would do _anythin_ g for him.

And he wanted him sexually. He could only wait and hope that Dean would, someday, some _how_ , feel the same way.

With a wistful sigh, he hurried down the stairs: “Yes, master? You were calling?”

But Sam was brought up short once at the foot of them by the sight of Dean in their… _his_ bedroom, extremely agitated, reaching to get the heavy bag of weaponry onto his lap in the wheelchair with his right hand while waving his cell phone around in his left.

He thrust it in the younger man’s direction as he entered the room: “Here! Keep trying Bobby! He must have gone out of signal somehow: it’s an _emergency!_ ”

“Master?” But he took the device and obediently tried the redial. “Master, what is it?”

He hurriedly stepped back as Dean almost wheeled over his bare toes, such was the older man’s haste to get out of the room. Then to Sam’s surprise, he was propelling himself back through the kitchen and straight out of the back door, turning immediately in the direction of the Impala. “Keep trying Bobby! God- _damn_ it!”

“Master?” Sam snatched up his boots and followed, still trying the cell. “It’s just going to voicemail: what shall I say?”

“I’ve already left messages: where the fuck _is_ he? For fuck’s… I got no _choice!_ ” And Dean was opening the rear door of his Baby and all but throwing the bag of weapons inside it.

Then, to Sam’s consternation, he was using the door as a support to pull himself up onto his feet with. “Help me get this thing inside!”

“What?”

“The chair, Sam: the chair! It folds down! Somehow… I don’t _know_ how, but it does! Just get it in the fucking car, will you!”

“But…?!”

“Now, Sam. _Now!_ ”

The younger man hastened to obey even as Dean struggled to the front of the Impala, using the car as a support, and tried to get himself into the driver’s seat without hurting his back. Luckily Sam had watched how Bobby had collapsed the wheelchair when he had taken them to the bar, so he managed to get it to fit into the back seat, before momentarily hesitating where he still stood by the open rear door: “Master?”

Dean glanced around, caught his expression, and sighed: “You’re _not_ going to get in trouble, Sam. Well… Bobby’ll _yell_ at you, _definitely_ … but he’ll know it’s _me_. I’ll be sleeping in the basement for now on for _sure!_ So, don’t you worry…

Just tell him that Garth called: he’s got a Leshy near Lincoln, and he just wanted to confirm that silver held in the blessed flame of a alter candle would kill it, but he hung up before I could tell him that there won’t be just _one!”_

“A _Leshy_ …?” Sam tried to ask, but Dean was too agitated to listen.

“They live in _families_ : there’ll be a mate, or a sibling, or offspring, or all of the above! Damn idiot’s going to get himself killed! Go’on back in the house, Sam. I sent the co-ordinates Garth gave me to Bobby: tell him to meet us there. And don’t _worry._ ”

And to Sam’s chagrin, Dean was motioning at him to close the door. _“_ Master, _you_ can’t drive this car!”

“I know, but _somebody_ has to, or Garth’s going to die. Can _you_ drive, Sammy?”

But his momentary hope died as he took in the blank expression on the younger man’s face: “Soon as I get back, that’s our next job. Teaching you to drive. Now go back inside and keep trying Bobby!”

Sam’s protests were drowned out as Dean turned the ignition key and the Impala’s engine burst first into a roar of protest at being left to stand for so many months, then a deep contented purr as she realised that the person who it _should_ be, was back behind her wheel. “Hey Baby… ya missed me?”

He couldn’t contain his grin, even as the young man swore that the car’s deep rumble contained a moan… but then his master was moving the stick shift into drive, gritting his teeth as he _willed_ his legs to work the foot pedals… and the Impala was pulling away…

Without _Sam._

He was standing in front of the car before he had realised, flinching as the big black beast momentarily charged him down before Dean had managed to hit the brake pedal, stopping the Impala with a loud screech of tyres. “Sam! Get the hell out of the way!”

“You can’t _do_ this, master! You _can’t!_ How can you drive the car? What if you crash?”

“What if I _don’t?_ What if I don’t get there in time, and there’s two or more, and Garth gets killed? He’s my _friend_ , Sam. And…”

“And, master?”

But he felt sadness envelope his heart at the look on his master’s face as Dean stared back at him through the windscreen. “My friends have a habit of dying, Sam. I can’t lose another, I just _can’t_.

I have to _try_ and save him.

Go’on back in the house, now. Bobby won’t be angry with you. I _promise_ he won’t.”

“No.”

And Dean was gaping at him as Sam determinedly moved round to the passenger side and climbed into the Impala beside him.

“I’m supposed to be watching out for you, master. I can’t do that if I’m not _with_ you. So let’s go.

 _Now_ , master!”

The order was snapped as Dean still stared at him… but then the dazed expression turned into a smirk:

“Yes, _Sir!_ ”

And the Impala was being gunned out of the yard.

 

 


	10. On The Road

“Do you know how to load a gun?”

“What?” Sam started as his master abruptly broke the silence that they had been driving in for almost an hour. It hadn’t been an uncomfortable one, more that there had been nothing to say… or rather… neither of them had known _what_ to say.

Sam wasn’t quite sure what was going on… but there was no way in _hell_ that Dean was going anywhere without him. (Although he had been quite anxious travelling in the car at first due to the speed that his master was driving… he had tried to delicately suggest that it was _somewhat_ over the limit, but had bitten the inside of his lip bloody at the look in the green eyes as they had flashed towards him and, if anything, the Impala had gone _faster_ in response.)

And _Dean_ was now realising that in his anxiety to help his friend, he had forgotten one quite important fact…

… that he wasn’t actually able to stand on his own two feet!

But that wasn’t going to stop him from trying.

He was already delving in the right hand pocket of the leather jacket that he habitually wore even inside the house and producing, to Sam’s _horror_ , an ivory-gripped pistol, and handing it to him. “Has that been in your jacket the whole time?”

“Yeah, I always used to carry it tucked into the back of my denims, but it’s _killed_ since I’ve been stuck sitting in that fucking chair.”

“But… _why?_ ”

“Cause you never know, Sammy-boy, you never know. Now… can you load it?”

“I’ve never even _held_ one before, master. I’m a _slave_ : no master in his right mind would trust a slave with a gun!”

“Yeah, well, good job my name’s Dean, not master. And I trust _you_ with it.” Sam flushed bright red with pleasure and pride at the praise, _and_ at the way that the older man had glanced round at him momentarily even he steered the Impala at top speed down the highway. “Now, reach behind you into that bag and find a clip of silver bullets… _Seriously_ ,” as the other’s expression now turned slightly to disbelief, “and there should be a flask in there as well.

That’s good,” he continued, as the younger man obeyed the instruction, twisting in his seat and stretching over the back rest until his long arms were able to reach to rummage in the bag, Sam wasn’t quite sure what a ‘clip’ looked like, but as his fingers closed around a smallish solid that felt like six to eight long slim somethings all held together somehow, he instinctively pulled it out to see what it was.

Bullets. He was holding bullets in his hand!

Each had the polished but deadly looking point, and were slotted side by side at their base into a tight metal band, and on the band was a label, with small neat writing that proclaimed them to be ‘witch-killing.’ “Nah, that ain’t it,” Dean commented from beside him after he had glanced briefly across to see what Sam was holding, “it should be near the top, though. Keep going.”

The bullets in the next clip were slightly different: instead of points, they were snub-nosed and seemed to have little symbols carved into them. “Those are for demons,” Dean informed his incredulous slave, “they don’t kill them, but at least they keep the bastards locked down for a while… Keep looking.”

Then Sam was pulling out several individual heavy tubes of bright red with gleaming metal at one end. His master swore: “Shotgun shells, full of rock salt. They should be all together in a container in there, the fucking thing must have split. I’ll have to sort that. Here, grab me the bag over: I’ll have to find them myself…”

“ _You_ can’t look for them, master! You’re supposed to be watching the _road!_ ”

Despite his urgency, Dean couldn’t help from chuckling at the younger man’s agast reaction. Then Sam was all but climbing over into the rear seat as they were moving, shuffling through the contents with his hands and moving things aside so he could see into the interior of the bag, before pulling out yet another clip of bullets with triumph.

He sat back in to the passenger seat as normal and stared with amazement at them. “Are they really made from _silver?_ I thought you just meant… But they’re gleaming as if they’re _polished…!”_

“Yep. In your hands, Sammy, you are holding the extent of my wealth. Despite my Baby, that is. Now, can you see a flask as well?”

“But…”

He felt rather than saw the green eyes flash over at him enquiringly, but Dean nodded a little at his lack of understanding and sighed a deep sigh. “Just ask, Sam.”

“Master?”

“It’s _Dean_. And just ask whatever it is you’re dying to ask. Although I can already guess most of your questions… What the hell am I talking about? Am I crazy? Don’t I know there’s no such things as monsters? Are you safe with me? Can I let you get out of the car? _Now_ , right now!”

“I don’t want to get out of the car, master… Dean. But…”

There was a pause while Sam tried to find the words for what he wanted to say, before realising that he couldn’t… _and_ it didn’t matter anyway, because he would follow his master _anywhere_ , even if, as he was growing increasingly concerned about, that Dean might actually turn out to be a deranged psychopath, but… no… Sam was certain, he was _certain_ that, no matter what was actually happening here, his master was a good man… the _best_ … and…

…. Sam _trusted_ him.

And he loved him.

And nothing else mattered.

 _Nothing_ else.

“Whatever this is, mas… Dean. I’m with you. No questions.” And Sam was straightening up where he sat and waiting, albeit nervously, for the next order.

The green eyes stared at him momentarily, the expressive eyebrows lifted in surprise, then suddenly the full force of that incredible smile was focused entirely on Sam: who immediately blushed bright red in response and had to squirm a little in the passenger seat to try and hide the fact that he was instantaneously hard beneath his loose-fitting denims just from that one look!

For one simultaneously terrifying and expectant moment, Sam thought that Dean had noticed the sudden tent that had formed in his lap and was going to comment about it, but then the older man was returning his gaze to the, luckily, fairly clear road ahead. “Did you see the flask in there while you were rooting about?”

Sam stared, then realised what he meant: “No, master… sorry. I’ll look again.” And he was once more twisting around to check the contents of the bag, trying to manoeuvre his legs so that his erection wasn’t so noticeable, and registering the sigh from the older man as yet again his name _wasn’t_ used despite all his repeated requests.

“I _like_ calling you master.” Sam felt he had to explain himself, although he couldn’t bring himself to look at Dean as he did and instead just stared steadily into the contents of the bag as if the flask would jump out into his hand if he could only concentrate enough… “It makes me feel safe. It makes me feel protected. That nothing will ever harm me as long as I’m with you, because I _belong_ to you.”

He hesitated momentarily, but was emboldened enough by the silence in the car to continue: “I do like being with you, mas… Dean. Very much. I know that sounds stupid to you…”

This time Dean responded with a grunt: “I’ve been talking about witches and demons, and you’re worried that I think _you_ sound stupid!  Kid, you must have been through some serious shit in your life… but know _this_ …” and the eyes were once more flashing in Sam’s direction but this time with more seriousness in them than the younger man had seen even through all of the last few weeks of pain… “I will not let anything or anyone hurt you _ever_ again. I mean that, Sammy. So. You call me whatever you want.”

“Thank you, master.” Sam had to close his eyes momentarily to try and chase away the tears that were threatening to fall: tiny wells of pure joy caused by the older man’s words that swelled enough to trickle down his cheeks despite his efforts. He knew that Dean had seen them _because_ of the silence in the car that suddenly ensued, and tried to cover his flushed embarrassment by noisily rummaging through the bag, to his relief finally finding the flask hiding beneath a gun-cleaning kit.

Its contents sloshed around ominously as Sam returned to sit properly in his seat once more, shifting his legs again as cover and surreptitiously pulling at his usually loose-fitting denims to try and disguise that they were still unnaturally tight around his groin. “What’s in it?”

“Holy water.” And Dean was reaching across to take the flask from him and almost immediately tucked the body of it firmly between his thighs to hold it still while he used his right hand to unscrew the lid. The younger man had to stifle a moan at the sight and momentarily looked away.

When he had recovered himself enough to turn back, Dean had the silver bullets balanced on his lap and was carefully pouring the water over them with a steady right hand even while he was using his damaged left hand to steer the Impala. Sam couldn’t contain his smile: just for once, his master seemed completely relaxed and contented, back behind the wheel of his beloved car and momentarily in control of his own destiny… albeit until he tried to get out of his seat again.

Sam wanted to see that peace on his face always. “You belong here.”

Shit: had he just said that aloud? Not even _he_ knew what he had just meant… but strangely… Dean understood and nodded. “Only place I’ve _ever_ belonged. Me and my Baby…

Sounds stupid, but she’s probably the only thing I’ve ever counted as _real_ family. Dad wasn’t…” He stopped speaking abruptly, instead concentrating on turning the clip of bullets over as they rested on the top of his thigh so he could fully coat them with the drizzling water, regardless of how damp his jeans were getting from the excess. But his eyes were once again sad as they continually flicked between his lap and up to watch the road ahead.

Sam wished he hadn’t spoken, but... he had to say his next words: they were too important not to. “I’m going to try and make you so proud of me… that perhaps… one day you might think of _me_ as family, master.”

“I’m already proud of you, Sam. And you’ve been family from the start, don’t you worry about that.” But he didn’t turn his head, even as he began to screw the lid back on the container that was now once again being gripped tightly between his legs.

The younger man chewed anxiously at his lip… he wanted to tell Dean how desperately he wanted to be _more_ than just ‘family’ to him. He wanted to tell him _everything_ about how he felt about him… but fear yet again kept him silent.

Because what if his master didn’t feel the same way?

Or worse… what if he was repulsed by the thoughts that Sam was having about him?

Which were getting increasingly more pornographic with every extra minute that he stared enviously at the flask and imagined how it would feel if those strong thighs were gripping around _him_ like that.

He hurried to concentrate as he realised that Dean was waiting for him to take the bullets from him with some increasing impatience. “Sorry, master.” Quickly he took the offered shining and still dripping wet clip. “Why did you have to wash them?”

Despite himself Dean chuckled. “I wasn’t _washing_ them, Sam, I was anointing them in holy water. It’s supposed to be a blessed flame to take a Leshy down, but there’s no way I’m gonna hold a naked flame to bullets! This is good as we’re going to get with these…

But we can do the _knife!_ ”

He shifted and squirmed in his seat, trying and failing to hide a wince as his back complained at both the position and the way he was physically forcing his legs to operate the pedals, and then once again to Sam’s alarm, was producing a vicious looking blade from somewhere on his person.

“You carry a _knife_ as well?” Sam didn’t even want to take it from him: too many memories of far too close, and extremely _unpleasant_ , encounters with them were suddenly surfacing. But even the briefest of touches of Dean’s fingers against his as he reluctantly took the deadly object settled him, and he clung to the luxury of the fleeting contact.

“Always. Here.” And Dean was reaching across with a lighter, expertly flicking it on with his fingers as he did. “Hold the blade in the flame while I say a blessing over it. Watch you don’t burn yourself.”

Sam tentatively obeyed, but then his interest was piqued as his wonderful master suddenly began to recite something in… “What is that, Dean? That language?”

The older man’s eyebrows rose, but he calmly completed his incantation even as the silver blade began to tinge and darken from the heat of the flame, before eventually flipping the lid of his lighter shut.  “It’s Latin, Sam.”

“And what does it mean?”

“It’s a blessing a priest would use in church: I just hope it’ll work as well with _me_ doing it.”

“Do you think _I_ could ever learn to talk in other languages like that?”

“The way you’re going through those self-help books? I’m damn sure of it, Sammy.”

“Will you teach me?”

“Just as soon as I’ve taught you to drive.” And Dean was jiggling uncomfortably in the driver’s seat again, aware of his spine’s protests at what he was forcing it to do. He knew he was going to pay heavily for taking off on a rescue mission like this: both physically from the already increasing pain through his back, _and_ from what Bobby was going to do to him after! “But for now, let’s get that gun loaded and ready. See that small latch on the side of it… yep there… push on it a little… that’s it, you’ve released the cylinder…”

He held out his hands for the bullets that had already been in the pistol and pocketed them swiftly even as he finished instructing the younger man on how to load the newly consecrated ones, before taking the pistol back and returning it to his pocket. Now he was at least as ready as he could be to face an angry Leshy or three…

Just as long as he could manage to get there in time.

It should have been a four hour drive but Dean somehow did it in just under two and a half. And for once luck seemed to be on his side as there were no cops around... not that he would stopped for them anyway.

Some things were just too fucking important.

He didn’t even slow the Impala as he turned off the highway onto the secondary road towards the designated coordinates that Garth had sent… a very rough, all but dirt, secondary road that had the car bouncing along despite its hard suspension. Sam had to take a tight grip on the leather seat and brace himself against the roof to keep from hitting his head, but he couldn’t help from laughing like an ecstatic child at the ride, such was his trust in the older man as his master expertly made the Impala chase down the miles to get to his friend.

And then they were abruptly squealing to a halt in a cloud of dust and a stink of overheated brakes.

Sam recovered his breath and looked around to see what Dean had spotted immediately. Parked on the side of the track, the front of it almost completely hidden by being buried into the covering of leaves and branches and trees, was an old, and all but falling apart, Ford Ranchero. Even the simulated wood panels down the side of it were coming loose. “Is that…?”

“It’s Garth’s truck.” The older man’s face was grim. “Why is it here? And where the hell is he?

You stay here.” The instruction was snapped at Sam even as he moved to go and help Dean get out of the car. “Lock the doors behind me. Just keep trying to call Bobby.”

“But Dean…”

“I said stay _there!_ ”  Sam caught his breath, genuinely taken by surprise by actually being given a definitive order from his master. “I _mean_ it! Do _not_ get out of the car in case it all goes pear-shaped! I don’t want you hurt.”

And Dean was struggling out of his seat before slamming the door behind him. Immediately he was using the roof of the Impala as a rest to work himself back to the rear door and leant on it as support while he dragged the folded wheelchair out.

“Master! You’re going to need me out there! You’ll need me to push it for you!” Sam had his body almost completely over the back of the seat and was helping him despite being really upset at being left behind.

“Damn it, you stay there, Sam!”

“Please master! I need to be with you. You’ll look after me, I know you will!” And Sam was pleading with his eyes, desperate not to be left alone. _Desperate_ to be with Dean no matter what.

Then he was pausing, taken aback at the expression in the older man’s face as he looked down at him. He had seen Dean in pain. Far too much. But… right now those expressive eyes were showing… such worry, and mental anguish, and absolute _sorrow._

Sam thought he had started to know the older man well, but…

Something _terrible_ must have happened in Dean’s life for him to have such sorrow.

The younger man felt almost that he could cry himself as he stared into the deep green lagoons that seemed to expose all the way through to his master’s soul… and wished with the whole of his heart that he could somehow take the pain away.

“I can’t lose you as well, Sammy.” Dean all but whispered at him. “I can’t lose _anyone_ else, I just can’t.”

And then he was closing the rear door in the slave’s face and somehow unfolding the wheelchair out to its more usual shape. Then to Sam’s chagrin as he watched through the window, instead of sitting in the seat, his master turned the chair around to be able to lean against the handles and push it along in front of him with them used as a mobile form of support while he walked away from the car, his senses automatically going to full alert as he tried to pick up any sign of his missing friend.

Sam watched anxiously as his master disappeared from his view momentarily behind the abandoned utility vehicle. He still didn’t understand any of what was going on…. What the hell was a Leshy anyway? And what was that about demons, and witches… and poltergeists, like that Sandy had said?

They weren’t _real_.

None of them were real.

 _None_ of them!

 _Surely_ they couldn’t be real?

What was his master _on_ about? And why was he so worried?

Because there couldn’t be anything _really_ to worry about… could there?

Monsters didn’t exist. Well… only human ones.

Not ones like these.

_Surely?_

He was still staring at the empty Ford when a man… boy… _somebody…_ ran out from behind it. Sam wasn’t quite able to determine his age, but he was thin, thin enough to be almost gaunt, with a slightly out-sized nose for his face, sticking out ears and smiling eyes, dressed in shabby working clothes, and he was carrying a sword in his right hand that was dripping with… something green and gooey… and he was breathing heavily and looking behind him with a fearful expression…

And blood was spreading from such a severe-looking stomach wound across his lower chest and abdomen that Sam could only imagine that something like a tiger had mauled him!

The slave was out of the car and running to help the man even as he saw him stagger and collapse onto the dusty road, momentarily forgetting about Dean’s order not to leave it. The only thought going through his mind was that this man needed his help…

… and that the man he loved was out there somewhere on his own.

“No, no, get back!” And the man was trying to push Sam away even as he was falling to his knees beside him to try and stop the bleeding. “I only got one of them, _run!_ ”

“What?”

And then Sam was staring past the man as… _something_ … came out of the trees behind the Ford.

On one of the numerous days that his master’s back was really bad, and Sam wouldn’t risk letting him have any more of his medication _despite_ Dean’s grumbles just in case he overdosed again, they had sat one afternoon, (that had turned into the evening as well), with a bucket of popcorn between them, two beers for his master and a glass of milk for him, and watched the Lord of the Rings Trilogy.

Sam had been amazed by the movies. He had tentatively asked if he might be allowed to borrow the books from the local library to try and read them for himself… and to his surprise, Dean had simply wheeled himself to their shared bedroom and returned with his own much-thumbed set, handing them over to the immediately tearful slave with the simple condition that he read them out loud for them both.

Although Sam had quickly realised that when he (purposely) stumbled over some of the names and put on the facial expression that his master already affectionately referred to as his ‘puppy-dog eyes’, Dean would take over the reading and magically bring the stories once more to life with incredibly distinctive and varied voices, and make it all just so exciting and more _magical_ that the young man could ever have believed possible from mere words printed on a page.

He had fallen in love with the Trilogy.

And even more in love with his wonderful master.

But now Sam knelt on a dusty dirt-track road beside a heavily bleeding man who was carrying a sword and stared…

…as what he could only describe as a smaller version of Treebeard erupted through the trees and stalked towards them. But not the slow speaking, seemingly gentle being from the books, but one with an expression of pure fury in its bark and its entire woody frame braced in hatred. And it moved really fast.

 _Really_ fast.

“Run!”

The injured man’s desperate cry of warning was too late. The Leshy was nearly on top of them even while Sam was trying to get to his own feet and pull the other up as well. He could only wait for the creature… thing… _monster_ to strike, it’s raised arms… branches… whatever… clenched ready to slash, and smash, and spear with the sharp pointed finger-like twig appendages at the end of them.

Sam was too stunned to do anything… and… what _could_ he do?

He didn’t know _what_ to do!

But his single thought as the wood spirit charged him down was of Dean. And how he _wished_ he had had the nerve to tell his master how he felt about him.

He would probably never get the chance to again…

Sam braced himself for the attack that would surely come, and closed his eyes.

But then they were flicking open again in shock at a loud explosive noise startled him.

 _And_ another.

To find himself staring up with crippling fear straight into the wild, rabied eyes of the Leshy as it towered over even _him_ , its branched limbs raised aggressively ready to bring them viciously crashing down onto and through his head…

But it didn’t.

Instead it seemed to be looking down at itself as if in surprise.

And then it staggered a couple of steps backwards away from Sam so that the young man could look past it…

To see Dean, standing upright, with his left hand resting against the back of the wheelchair for support, and his right hand raised in the direction of the Leshy… with the gun still smoking from having just being fired twice.

The wood spirit also turned enough to see what was suddenly causing it intense pain, and hissed a snarl of rage. It was immediately advancing on Dean, who calmly stood his ground and fired the rest of the rounds as close to just under the Leshy’s mouth as he could: the creature flinching and roaring with pain at every buzzing bullet, but not falling.

Then the pistol was empty and Dean was throwing it to one side and pulling out his knife as the creature was nearly on him.

Sam came out of his daze of terror at the sight. The thing was going to hurt his master…

Well, not if _he_ had anything to say about it!

Urgently, he glanced around: there must be something he could do to help Dean.

He _had_ to do something to help Dean. He couldn’t _lose_ him.

Then Sam’s eyes were falling on the sword that the injured man… who he supposed was this Garth person that Dean had come racing to save… still held in his hand. Before he had thought, he had snatched it from him and thrown it as hard as he could at the back of the Leshy.

His aim wasn’t bad for a first attempt. The blade of the sword was driven deeply into one of the long stick-like limbs that were reaching for Dean, and stuck in there, quivering and vibrating. The creature snarled a hiss again, twisted around physically enough to look directly at Sam as if to say ‘you’re next’ and turned back, intent of first getting hold of Dean and taking its sweet, pleasurable time to tear him apart limb from limb.

But instead, it abruptly found itself looking right down on the human, who had stepped the few paces forward without the chair, albeit awkwardly and painfully, to meet it. Dean looked up at the Leshy to meet it right in the eye as he drove the hastily blessed blade as deep into the area where its throat, or equivalent, should be as he could, grazing and scratching his knuckles against the rough bark-like flesh that covered it, but finding the vital weak spot beneath that he had been trying to hit with the bullets.

The wood spirit looked momentarily surprised, then whimpered as it burst into flames suddenly: a vivid green flame that blazed like an inferno momentarily then was gone as abruptly as it had ignited… taking the remains of the Leshy with it.

Dean, who had thrown his full weight behind the knife as he had struck, suddenly found himself not only completely dazzled from the vivid glare that had all but engulfed him as well, but, more importantly, with nothing now to use as support… and fell forward onto his face with a loud curse and a grunt. He was immediately trying to get his knees beneath him, desperately trying to avoid stabbing himself with his own knife, but his back spasmed in agony from all the unwarranted exertion he had forced it to do that day, and his efforts to even do that now were in vain.

“Dean!” And Sam was across and down on his knees beside him in the very next instant, already sliding his large hands beneath the older man to try and help him, although extremely aware that he might cause his master further pain if he wasn’t careful.

“I thought I told you to stay in the car.”

The younger man bit his lip, but kept trying to gently manipulate Dean so he could turn over to his back and sit on the ground. “I’m sorry, master. I…”

“You could have got yourself killed.” Dean didn’t sound angry at him, more disappointed. “What would I have done if you had got hurt? I need to know you’re _safe!_ ”

“And I need you, full _stop!_ ” Sam had snapped back before he had thought whether that was wise. “I need _you_ to be safe as well, master! Because if anything happened to you, then I wouldn’t want to go on _living!_

I mean…” he continued with a blush as the green eyes widened and looked up at him, and the pink lips parted in surprise. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, mas… Dean. I never thought I would be allowed to have a life like this. I never thought I could be so happy! But if I lost you, then…

You just don’t understand how much you _mean_ to me, master.”

By this time, he had all but rolled the other man somehow physically into his arms and was moving to lift him up bridal style, relishing the assurance of having him safely in his strong embrace once more.

Dean grabbed for his neck with an unmanly squawk: “Sam! Put me down right now! _Now!_ ”

‘Never’, Sam wanted to tell him. ‘I never want to let go of you’. But instead he obediently moved the few steps back to the wheelchair and placed Dean gently back into his seat. “You walked that on your own, master. I knew you could! You can do _anything_ , master!

Master?” And he was leaning over Dean suddenly where he sat, worried at the momentary lack of response. “Dean, what is it? Dean? Talk to me…”

The other man sighed, a deep sigh and tilted his head up to face Sam, his eyes abruptly shining with tears. “I can do anything, can I, Sammy? Look at me. I’ve dragged you into danger because I’m _useless!_ Do you know what went through my mind when I realised you were out of the car and that thing was coming straight at you? I should have made you stay at Bobby’s…

I should have made sure you were _safe_. I’m so sorry, Sam.”

“No.” Before he was realising what he was doing, Sam once again had Dean’s jaw held tightly in his right hand so that his master couldn’t look away from him, whilst supporting himself on his left hand which had somehow moved to rest on the older man’s denim-covered thigh, so that he could bring their faces to within a few inches of each other. “ _No!_

I will _not_ be staying safe _anywhere_ , master. My place is beside you, not matter _where_ that is. And if it involves… witches, or… _demons?_... or whatever _that_ thing was… then I will be beside you _facing_ them!

And you will _not_ leave me in the car, or at Bobby’s, or _anywhere!_ Do you _understand_ me, Dean? Do _you_ know how it felt to see that thing come out from the trees and not know if you were okay? Or what it was like for me to watch it striding towards you, knowing that you weren’t able to run away from it?

You were so brave, master, and I am so very, very proud of you. But where- _ever_ you go from now on, _I_ am going to be there as well. No argument.

 _No_.” And he was tightening his grip even more as Dean looked as if he were going to try to disagree, until the older man was wincing a little from pain, “I am _telling_ you, master. Get it through your _head_.

You _need_ me beside you.

And _that_ … Is where I am _always_ going to be.”

He had talked himself out, the hazel eyes exposing his immense and varied emotions caused by the present circumstances: his fear at seeing something that he still didn’t quite believe; his terror at coming so close to losing the man he loved… again. His distraughtness at the threat of being left behind, no matter _what_ the dangers…

And Dean sat in the chair and stared up at him.

At the way that Sam was… and always _had_ seemed to loom over him, right from their first meeting. But whereas at first he had just been tall, _now_ the younger man was big in _every_ sense: he had bulked out into an amazing mass of muscle that… completely filled the whole of Dean’s view right now.

Actually… Sam filled the majority of Dean’s thoughts, full _stop_.

He had certainly become more and more aware of the young man’s presence in his life: of his simple pleasure in… just about _everything!_ Of his excitement at being allowed to learn; to take a pride in himself; the joy of just be allowed to sit up front in a car; of going out to just relax in a bar with friends…

Of the way Sam laughed.

Of how impossibly deep his dimples seemed to be when he grinned.

Of how his eyes sparkled and shone, and of how they seemed to be different colours in differing lights.

And of…

…how it just felt so amazing to wake up in his strong arms.

Dean had been with a lot of partners during his life, but he had very rarely stayed with them for a whole night. It was far more usual that he would return to his motel room… or the Impala… in the early hours to sleep.

Alone.

But since Sam had arrived, Dean had found himself waking up quite a few times with the younger man somehow physically wrapped around him. It didn’t matter that most of the nights he didn’t even remember the slave getting into the bed with him, but…

It had felt good.

So many times, he had nearly asked Sam if he would just… _hold_ him while he slept. But…

The memory of Sam telling them about learning not to bother screaming during a rape was too clear. Dean never, _never_ wanted the gentle young slave to think that he would _ever_ do anything like that to him.

It would break his heart to lose Sam’s tentative trust in him by doing something to make him afraid of Dean.

He couldn’t bear the idea of losing Sam’s trust in him.

So… these last few weeks, Dean had just tried to keep his thoughts, and his feelings, to himself. And a good job too, for if Sam knew how terrified he had been when he had realised that the young man had gotten out of the car despite being told not to…? He would have lost any last bit of respect for his master.

Because Dean _had_ been terrified when he had seen Sam out of the Impala.

It was just a good job that John had enforced all those years of training on him because… he didn’t actually remember firing the first two shots.

Indeed time had seemed to freeze for an instant when Dean realised that the Lechy was advancing on Sam, and it had stayed frozen until, for some reason, it was turning away from the young man to instead stalk _him_ , and it was only then that he realised that he was somehow standing with the pistol in his hand…

He had nearly gotten Sam killed.

He was useless.

He had _always_ been useless.

John had always told him he was.

His dad had been right: John had _always_ been right.

And… if Sam had gotten hurt because Dean hadn’t been able to protect him…  He had dragged him into this so recklessly… The young man probably hadn’t even really wanted to come with him, he had only got into the Impala because of his fear of being in trouble with Bobby… but if he had gotten hurt because of Dean….

… then Dean would never be able to forgive himself.

Not this time.

No, this time, if he’d gotten someone else hurt through the fact he was so useless…

If he’d gotten _Sam_ hurt: his gentle young slave who had already been through far too much…

… then Dean would have put his very last bullet, silver or otherwise, into his own head.

End of.

Because Sam _hadn’t_ even really wanted to be here with him, had he…?

Or… so Dean had thought right up until the moment before… But now... as he sat in the much loathed wheelchair and stared up into the hazel eyes that seemed to be boring right into his soul and saw…

He wasn’t quite sure _what_ he saw in them…

But Dean wanted to _know_.

Unconsciously he licked his lips and tilted his head back a little more, meeting the young man’s eyes with a direct and steady gaze: “Sam…?”

“Dean! Hey, man, I didn’t expect you to be here! Good work, though!”

Both master and slave started and looked across as the injured man stumbled across to where they were: they had both forgotten about him. Dean was instantly moving to pull away from the young man, trying to jerk his head loose and reluctantly Sam released the tight grip that he had on his face…

 _Very_ reluctantly.

For he had been just about to tell his master how he _felt_ about him.

He had been just about to kiss Dean.

Fuck.

“Hey, Garth!” And Dean was turning the wheelchair round to greet his friend. “Why the hell didn’t you pick up your phone? I must have called a hundred times: you rung off before I could warn you…”

“Sorry, man, the trees must have blocked the signal: I had to hike for miles!  And then I ran into the one… well, the one I _thought_ was killing the lumberjacks felling in the forest…” Garth looked wistful for a moment. “I can’t really blame it, you know? Its habitat was being destroyed. And well… _then_ …

Its _mate_ turned up. Boy, was he… her… it… pissed!

But you must be Sam!” And he was smiling up at the young man, seemingly unconcerned about his faded clothes being saturated with a mixture of fresh and dried blood. “Wow, Bobby _said_ you were tall…” And Sam was taken aback as he suddenly found himself embraced in the tightest hug that he had ever had.

Desperately he looked round to Dean for support. The older man shrugged and smiled up at him: “He does that! You get used to it.” Then he was turning his attention back to Garth. “Looks like it caught you good with its… erm… claws, how bad is it?”

“Aw, it’s not too bad, Dean, the bleeding’s already nearly stopped.” Garth released Sam and instead moved to hand Dean the discarded gun that he had retrieved on his way over. “Here, I think you dropped this. How you doing? It’s good to see you up on your feet again… we all wondered… but… wow, _man_ … _?!_ ”

And to the slave’s outrage, Garth was crouching to take the wheelchair bound man’s damaged left hand in a gentle grip and was examining, without the slightest flinch, where the little finger had once been, and the now patchy, almost leathery-looking skin that passed for flesh… although there were also a few small sparks of pink beneath as proof that not all the veins had been incinerated, and that there was still a slight chance of at least _some_ recovery … “Wow, Dean. I heard about the fire but I didn’t _realise_ … sorry to hear about your old man… but… how _are_ you…? “

“Get your hands off him.”

Both the other men turned to stare at Sam and Garth’s innocent smile faded at the sight of the anger in the tall young man’s face. Carefully he released Dean’s hand from the confines now of both of his own and straightened up from where he was crouching by the wheelchair. “Yeah… Bobby said you were quite _protective_ as well… no offence meant, man.”

And he was backing away, his hands held up in front of him reassuringly.

Dean rolled his eyes at him, “Very funny, Garth… now, let’s have a look at that wound…”

But their banter was cut short by the sound of Dean’s cell phone ringing noisily from the front of the Impala. “Shit. That’s Bobby.”

“How do you know, master?”

“You kidding? Listen to how _loud_ that is! Can you fetch it for me please, Sammy? Might as well get this over with.”

With one last menacing glance at Garth, Sam obeyed. Although he was immediately anxious after a glance at the caller ID: his master had been completely correct in his surmising. It seemed only natural to him to touch his hand to the back of Dean’s neck to show support after he had handed over the cell… and even more natural for him not to remove it again.

“Hey, Bobby. Wait, wait, slow down… Slow down, Bobby _please_. Yeah, Sammy’s with me… Yeah I know I’m a fucking idgit… but Garth was in _trouble_ : there _were_ two of them… Yeah, _two!_ Yeah, _he’s_ a damned fool idgit as well…

No, Sam’s fine… he’s _fine_ , Bobby… No, I know I’m a bad influence…Yeah, I know I shouldn’t be driving, but I had no choi… yeah… yes, it hurts… well, it’s nice to know you _care_ , Bobby…

 _No_ , I’m not being facetious…!

I _had_ to, Bobby. I couldn’t just let him get killed… I _tried_ to get hold of you! No. _No_ …

Sorry, Bobby…

Okay…

Garth? He wants to talk to you!” And Dean was thrusting the cell phone at the other man with a sigh of relief.

Sam couldn’t contain his smirk as the thin, smaller man visibly paled as he took the cell, and the knowing smile that had been trained for the last few minutes on the slave and the obvious possessive ownership of his stance, _completely_ disappeared. “ _Hey_ Bobbee…!”

Then he was walking away from them both as the angry tone of the old man’s voice could clearly be understood even if the actual words couldn’t be heard. Dean took the chance to try and stretch out his back and get more comfortable in his chair, but couldn’t contain a wince as the damaged vertebrae complained vindictively at the day’s activities.

He had done too much: he _knew_ he had done too much. Even the thought of having to force his body to drive the Impala again that day was making his stomach churn a little…

“Are you okay, master?” Sam was on his knees beside him in an instant, his large hands sliding to get between Dean’s body and the wheelchair and… he didn’t know _what_ to do that would help, but he _wanted_ to.

So he compromised by physically pulling his master forward where he sat, until he could get his fingers round to where he knew the older man would be feeing the most pain, and gently began to massage Dean’s spine, his own long body _far_ too aware of having the other all but fully contained in his embrace. “Is this easing it at all, master?”

Sam’s voice, even to himself, emerged as barely a husky whisper… and he daren’t look up to meet Dean’s eyes in case the lust in his own was too obvious. But he couldn’t stop himself from resting his head against his master’s shoulder and just… breathing his proximity in…

Then Dean was arching his back against a spasm and pushing the disappointed younger man away without malice. “It’s _fine_ , Sam. Well… no, it’s _not_ , but this was too important. If we hadn’t got here in time…

Anyway…” He shook off his morbid thoughts and smiled up at Sam. “It’s nothing that a couple of my tablets and a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

But his smile faded as he took in the look of horror on the slave’s face: “Master, I…”

“We didn’t bring any, did we?” Dean looked momentarily down at his knees, then back up at the already tearful Sam. “Don’t you worry. This is _my_ fault! I didn’t give you chance to think!”

“But I should have brought them! I knew you were due some after my run: I should have thought…!”

“My fault, Sammy. Only mine. And it’s easily solved, we’ll find a drugstore somewhere. You can run in and get some over the counter meds… They won’t be as strong, but they’ll _do_ …”

Then he was sighing as the slave’s complexion turned almost as pale as he felt his _own_ to be. “I’d watch you in and out of the door, Sam. I know you get nervous about being out on your own… And with good reason, I get that…”

“But, master… look at the state of me!” And indeed Sam was a sight, covered as he was from his abdomen down with Garth’s now all but dried, (and slightly pungent), blood from where he had hugged him.

Even as Dean’s eyes were taken that fact in, he was also realising that, in the desperate haste to get to Garth, not only had they not brought his medications, but also neither of them had brought any change of clothing, or toiletries, or _anything_ with them. And his back was now complaining enough from pain to make him feel nauseous.

Shit.

“Garth?” The other man turned from where he was still being berated by Bobby for being so stupid as to call Dean and not _him_. “Does that need looking at, _really_ , or are you okay? Cos I really need to lay down…”

“Sure. Sure! _Man_ , it’s really good to see you! Bye, Bobby.” And he was unceremoniously hanging up the call so he could hand back the cell. “I’m fine, Dean. It’s not as bad as it looks: my jacket took the worst of it, that’s gonna go in the trash. You go and rest, there’s a motel up the road backaways. And Dean…?”

Sam paused from wheeling his master back to the Impala to allow Dean to look back at the smaller, thin man.

“Even in that chair, you’re _still_ the biggest and best bad-ass I’ve ever known. And the best son-of-a bitch friend to boot.

Glad to see you back in the game, man.”

Dean nodded tiredly at him, but was by now more interested in concentrating on getting himself into the Impala as painlessly as possible, trying not to twist his back any more than he had to. He suddenly felt completely and totally exhausted… and absolutely pathetic. What the hell was he doing, trying to prove that he was still worth something…?

He had _never_ been worth anything.

Seriously: right now, Dean just wanted to find somewhere to be able to get his head down for a couple of hours, before returning to Bobby’s.

And he really wasn’t looking forward to the journey _or_ the reception when he got there.

Sam was now joining him in the front of the car, after having finished folding the wheelchair once more into the rear seat. There was no need for words between them as Dean started the engine and turned the Impala to head back down the road at a far more sedate pace than when they had arrived.

Garth watched them both go with genuine regret and a rueful smile. “You two take care of each other now… y’hear?”

 


	11. The Motel

Garth had been correct: there was a motel, about twenty miles away. But the way Dean’s back was complaining now the rush of adrenalin was wearing off, made it seem more like two hundred. Each and every movement of his legs now _hurt._

Sam sat silently beside his master, watching as an ever increasing sheen of sweat crept down from the older man’s hairline and his face grow more and more pale with every passing moment. And for every new line that began to crease on Dean’s face from pain, so did Sam’s guilt grow…

This was _his_ fault.

It was his duty to look after his master’s medications. He had _made_ it his duty. He had physically removed them all from Dean’s hands after his discharge from hospital and _told_ him that he would be dealing with them from now on. He should have _thought_. They should have been his first consideration even as he was following the wheelchair bound man out of the house.

Bobby was going to be furious with him… and deservedly. His master _should_ be furious with him. He would never forgive himself…

“Sammy, if you don’t stop fretting I’m gonna get really cross!” The young man started with surprise as Dean abruptly broke the silence that they had been travelling in: he hadn’t been aware that his master had been glancing across at him. “This is _my_ screw up: I didn’t give you a chance.” He snorted wryly. “Hell, I didn’t even pick up my bag of clothes… some Hunter _I_ am!

I can hear dad now… ‘Don’t even bother to unpack, boy: we may need to go at a moment’s notice. Forget anything and I _won’t_ be coming back for it. And don’t worry about that schoolwork: you can catch up at the next one’…”

Despite himself Dean sighed. “I never _did_ catch up! You’re probably more educated already than I ever will be… Anyway...” And the green eyes were flashing in Sam’s direction. “Don’t you worry about leaving the meds at Bobby’s. I’ll be fine. I just need to rest, and have something to eat, and then we’ll head on back…

And _then_ … Bobby’ll _kill_ me!”

Sam stared momentarily wide-eyed at him, before realising that Dean’s eyes were twinkling mischievously despite the pain, and despite his anxiousness he couldn’t help from bursting into laughter…

…but he felt like a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “I really am sorry though, master. I’m worried about you: you’ve done far too much today…”

“There ain’t nutt’n to be sorry about, Sammy. Now, just keep your eyes peeled for this motel…”

“Okay.” Sam sat up to stare forward through the windscreen, intent on being the first to spot the sign. He hadn’t even realised that his left hand had crept across the seat towards the other man until his master’s fingers were covering his momentarily and giving them a squeeze, leaving the young man flushing with embarrassment right up to the very tips of his ears even as Dean withdrew his hand again.

And Sam so wished that he hadn’t.

It was only a few minutes later that the motel finally came into sight. Dean pulled the Impala into one of the empty parking spaces and cut the engine. Sam glanced round in a slight panic as momentarily the older man didn’t try to move from his seat. “Master?”

“It’s alright, Sam. Just… give me a minute…” The slave nodded without a need for another word and waited: Dean finally took in a deep, controlled breath and reached for the door handle. “Okay. Could you get the chair out for me please?”

But the young man was already out from his side of the car and pulling the wheelchair out from the back seat. He had it unfolded and ready for Dean as he struggled carefully out of the driver’s side, wanting desperately to help, but all too aware that the slightest incorrect action now could cause his master more pain. And he _certainly_ didn’t want a repeat of the Jonah incident.

They both breathed a sigh of relief as Dean settled himself into the chair: “Okay, Sammy. You stay as close to the back of me as you can, to cover all that blood on you while we’re getting a room. We’ll sort everything else out once I’ve had a rest, okay?”

“Okay master.” But he couldn’t resist taking the moment to lean over and grasp the older man’s right shoulder as reassurance for… he didn’t _know_ for what, but he needed it. And then he was having to shuffle even closer to the rear of the wheelchair to try and conceal his body’s instant reaction as Dean once more covered his hand with his own and squeezed it briefly.

The receptionist in the lobby stared curiously at them both even as she was sorting out a room. Dean couldn’t really blame her as they must have looked a real sight: him seemingly stuck in a wheelchair but still somehow plastered with the dust of the dirt road that he hadn’t managed to slap completely off his scruffy clothes, being propelled by an extremely tall, but slightly _less_ scruffy-looking, slave who was all but glued to the back of the chair and coated from his chest down with splodges of drying and already dried blood.

“It’s a long story,” he tried to joke. “And it’s actually really boring. We were on our way home, but I’m feeling the beginnings of a major migraine coming on. And Sam, of course, can’t drive.” The woman glanced up at the slave automatically with indifference, then did a double take and looked again, this time with a _very_ approving smile lifting the corners of her lips.

Dean felt a twinge of… something deep in his chest that made him insanely angry at her for some reason… and he couldn’t help but tense up where he sat. But then both of Sam’s large hands were suddenly high on his shoulders, massaging and kneading at where they joined his neck, and he was relaxing just as quickly at the now accustomed touch.

“Are you alright, master?” The older man almost startled: when had Sam leant forward so closely that he could whisper in his ear, the warm breath behind the words wafting across Dean’s skin?

“Yep,” was all he could manage to respond with momentarily. “But this headache’s getting worse with every minute. I’m starting to struggle to see.” It was a good enough lie to cover why they needed a room in the early afternoon, as well as… “You wouldn’t have any painkillers of any sort, would you ma’am? Ibupofen; tramadol; anything that might help drive this thing away. I’d happily buy a pack off you…”

The woman was still staring with vexation at Sam and the way he was so openly touching the older man, but she quickly shook off her disappointment to instead root around in her handbag: “I have paracetamols, if that would help…”

“Oh God, yes. Thank you,” and Dean was taking the small packet and the key to the room from her gratefully. “How much do I owe you?”

“It’s fine. I hope they help with your ‘headache’.” She gave Dean a knowing look as Sam was _still_ tenderly massaging his neck and shoulders. “You _sure_ you wanted a room with twin beds?”

And then she was smirking at the sudden red faces on _both_ the good-looking men.

“Sorry about that.” Dean mumbled as Sam leant over the chair to unlock the door, before pushing his master into the room. “People sometimes get the wrong impression...”

“What impression would _that_ be, master?”

And Dean was going even redder at the slave’s innocent naivety. “ _You_ know… that two men sharing a room must be…”

“Must be _what_ , master?”

Seriously, why couldn’t Sam see how embarrassed even such an innocuous sounding question was making him? “ _You_ know…“ Jesus, even the tips of his ears must now be scarlet. _And_ round the back of his neck! Dean tugged frantically at the collar of his shirt, trying to get some cooler air to his flushed skin…

Behind him, Sam was _determined_ not to laugh.

In the end, the older man snatched up the empty ice bucket on a small table for want of some way of recovering his composure: “Here! I’m going to need some…” And then he was looking up into the slave’s sparkling eyes and realising… “ _For….!_ Have you been winding me _up!_ _You…!_ Go and fill _that_ up!”

And Dean was tutting with exasperation even as he watched Sam safely chuckle his way to the ice machine and back.

But he couldn’t stop the smile from sneaking across his own face.

Although it was swiftly gone as he turned the chair towards the small bathroom and couldn’t contain his sigh.

“Master…?”

“It’s _fine_ , Sam. Just… can you fetch me a drink of water so I can take two of these, please.” and Dean indicated the pack of small white tablets that he was still holding. The slave hurried to obey.

“And then, if you could find something to wrap the ice in… make a pack of it. I’m going to go and have a shower… as hot as I can bear on my back… and then whack the ice on and hope it eases…

At least for a while, anyway.

Here’s my card.” And he was delving into his pocket for his wallet once more to retrieve one of his numerous (fake) credit cards and handing it to Sam along with the now empty beaker. “You know how to look on your cell: find somewhere local that does take-out and get whatever you fancy.”

“What do _you_ want to eat, master…erm… Mr… erm…Tancock? Who’s that?” The young man was studying the unknown name on the card with a perplexed frown.

But Dean was already wheeling himself exhaustedly in the direction of the shower. “I might as well be honest, Sammy, ‘cos I know you’ll just nag at me anyway! Right at this minute I’m tired, and I’m hurtin’. I just want to try and sleep if I can.”

He paused in the doorway and glanced back. “So you use that card for anything you need…” Then he was propelling himself through it… “And that _includes_ the Adult pay per view!”

Dean closed the door behind him and his momentary good humour dissipated as he stared at the enclosed shower. For it meant that he would have to stand up.

For at least a few minutes.

And right at _this_ minute… Dean’s back was pulsing with sporadic spasms of _agony_. He couldn’t find any ease either by leaning forward _or_ backwards… and the thought of _trying_ to get himself out of the chair…

Shit.

It was with a deep sigh that he began to try and divest himself of as many layers of clothes as he could reasonably, and painlessly as possible, manage to in the wheelchair, before reaching with a wince and a grimace forward to clasp hold of the edge of the shower cubicle. Then, with a lot of effort, cussing beneath his breath, and a momentary panic about whether or not the flimsy PVC would take his weight… or not…, he heaved himself up and out of the chair, trying to breathe through the acute complaints of his back until he was once more standing up on his own two feet.

So far, so good.

Carefully Dean removed his last couple of garments one-handed while still steadying himself on the thin but surprisingly strong aluminium edge, and stepped carefully into the shower enclosure, manoeuvring the rest of his body onto first one foot then the other until he was fully inside.

It was with a relief that the invalided man turned the water on, and stood for a minute enjoying the refreshing warm spray as it instantly flowed over him. But it wasn’t where he needed it. Dean _needed_ it to be concentrated on that spot on his back where his spine seemed to be doing a realistic imitation of a miniature sun, radiating and pulsing with unnatural internal flame. He could only _hope_ that heat followed by ice would ease it…

Even just a _little_ would be a relief.

With that in mind, Dean reached up to bring down the shower head from its holder above his head… but it seemed to be stuck fast with old corrosion, and probably globules of sticky soap solution. Desperately he pulled at it, feeling the shaking in his body that he had been so desperate to try and ignore since he literally fell through the burning remains of the Leshy, increase with the effort. He could feel his legs trembling beneath him, with the inclination veering towards collapse.

He needed both hands back on the wall of the cubicle or his body was going to hit the floor of the enclosure _hard_.

If only he could get the fucking shower head loose…

Then Dean was nearly squealing with surprise as, suddenly, from behind him, one long, bare left arm reached over his shoulder to competently unhook the head, while at the same time, an equally bare right arm was wrapping itself tightly around his waist to help support him. “I’ve got you, master. I won’t let you fall.”

“ _Sam!_ I’m not _wearing_ anything! Get _out!_ ”

“I’d be surprised if you _were_ , in a shower! And I’ve seen _many_ naked men so don’t you worry about that! And… right now… _I’m_ more worried about you falling again. So. Where do you need the spray directed?”

“For…!” But even Dean couldn’t deny that he was grateful for Sam’s support. _And_ … that he really _needed_ it! “A little higher. No, too high… Oh God, _there_ , right there! Can you get the water hotter, Sammy? As hot as it will go.”

The slave adjusted the controls even as he aimed the jet of spray directly against his master’s back. “For how long?”

“Long as I can bear.” Dean gasped. “Then the same with the ice. And hope it does it!”

He fell silent, trying to fully concentrate on the liquid heat that was now beginning to vie painfully with the internal burn just the other side of his skin… and _ignore_ the knowledge that he was somehow once more being held in Sam’s strong arms… while fully naked. Had he left the towel as he had meant to, ready on the wheelchair? Yes, he had. And he should be able to work his way back to it without having to turn around and face the younger man…

… Without Sam _noticing_ …

“Is this helping?” The slave’s voice was once again right in Dean’s ear: he could hear him clearly above the noise of the electric shower and the gushing water. Despite himself, he shivered.

“Are you cold, master?” And then somehow the younger man’s body was surrounding the older man’s to try and transfer his own warmth even as he continued to hold the shower head steady.

Which did nothing to help curb the hard-on that Dean had had from the _instant_ he had known that Sam was in the shower with him.

“Is that better?”

“Much.” Dean grunted and forced himself to focus on the hot spray: “You always look after me, Sammy. I know I’m not so good at saying thanks…”

“You don’t have to.” Dean could swear that he could now feel the slave’s hot breath across his neck… and the soft caress of… _lips?_ “I meant what I said earlier: I’m always going to be there, master. By your side. No matter what.”

“You and me against the world, huh?” The older man was now resting his head against the cool of the tiles in front of him… anything to try and resist the urge to rest it against the strong chest behind…

Sam considered for a moment. “Against the world… if we must. Against _monsters?_ Like that thing earlier? And I _still_ have a million questions about that, by the way! And about demons… and poltergeists… and all the rest…

But… You and me…  I _like_ that, master…

… Dean.

You and me, Dean.

Sam and Dean.

I like _that_ a _lot_.”

He was _definitely_ breathing straight into Dean’s ear, and the older man was now certain that there was a warm mouth against his skin with every word. And the way his neck seemed to be heating up in response… _every_ single atom of his body was heating up…  causing such intense arousal throughout his entire being that was all seeming to concentrate unfairly in that one single part of his body…

But at least the skin over his spine actually did feel like it was beginning to burn. Dean took the chance, and the excuse, to escape before this all went way too far: “I gotta get out, Sam. I need the ice!”

Quickly he was pulling away from Sam… or trying to… so he could start to work his way back to his chair. Or more importantly… to the towel on it, to try and cover himself before the slave _saw_.

But the younger man had other ideas, and upon quickly switching the water off, he was stretching out with his long arm from where they still both stood… showing off with his damned orang-utan reach, Dean thought grumpily… to snatch up the towel and begin to gently but capably dry his master off with it, urging the older man to turn in the cage of his arms so he could get to his front as well.

Dean glanced down at his feet as he was all but pivoted in Sam’s arms, anxious about slipping on the wet cubicle floor despite the hold that the slave had around him… and then was just as immediately looking back up, with his face once more blazing red with embarrassment.

For Sam _hadn’t_ entered the shower behind him in his underwear as Dean had presumed. Nor had he stayed in his blood-covered denims.

In fact… the young man was also completely naked. _And_ as aroused as Dean himself was.

And _everything_ about him was in proportion. In a way that made Dean’s mouth immediately water. And then he felt so _ashamed_ …

“Dean? What is it?” Sam had watched the older man’s realisation and his reaction with increasing panic: he had wrestled with himself to build up the nerve to do this. To actually dare to undress and join Dean in the shower. For he had hoped… oh _God_ , he had hoped… that his master might realise... how he _felt_ about him.

And… that Dean might feel the same way… that he might allow Sam to lie with him as he slept…

That he might touch him.

That he might want to do _more_ than just touch…

But Dean wasn’t looking at him with lust, even though Sam had hoped the noticeable response of the older man’s body to his arrival in the shower had suggested differently. In fact… even though the other had literally only just been blushing all _over_ , now his face had suddenly drained of all colour and he was looking… almost sickly in pallor.

“Master?” Sam couldn’t even hear his own voice: his question came out as little more than a croak.

Dean took a deep breath and licked his lips… or tried to, because his mouth had just as suddenly gone completely dry… “Look… Sam, I…”

Oh God, Dean didn’t want him. He didn’t _want_ Sam… not in _that_ way.

And Sam had just gone and completely ruined what they had… what they were _beginning_ to have… because he had risked offering himself to his master when he was at his most vulnerable. When Dean was in so much pain that he could barely stand on his own.

How could he have been so stupid?

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Because, if Dean _did_ feel like that about him then…

…then he would have _already_ taken Sam to his bed. Of _course_ he would have. Just like all his other masters had.

Dean just didn’t _want_ him like that.

Oh God, how could Sam have been so _stupid?_  

“Master, I…”

“No, Sam. Just let me…” And Dean was looking at his feet again. Trying not to notice the enormous erection in the way that made his own, by _no_ means small, just look average sized. Trying to tell himself that he wasn’t a sick, _sick_ individual. “Look, Sammy. I… I know that this is what you expect…

What you’ve been _made_ to do by… probably more people and in more ways than I would _ever_ want to know…

But I would _never_ make you. I would never _force_ you to… be with me like that…

It would _kill_ me to know that you were afraid of me. So… please… you don’t have to think that you’ve _got_ to please me. Because you don’t.

I _love_ you being here with me.” Dean snorted a little, despite himself. “More than that… I _need_ you here with me, Sammy.  I really do.

You don’t _have_ to feel that you have to _do_ this.”

Dean was still staring down at his toes: tears now filling his eyes and obscuring _everything_ from his view.

So he didn’t see Sam’s expression go from terrified panic bordering on nausea… to surprise: from eyes first widening with disbelief to suddenly glistening with tears of joy. To his soul filled with uncertainty and doubt… to be entirely consumed with the conviction that he was totally, irrefutably and irrevocably loved.

And… now that he finally had his master fully naked and could see how beautiful he was all over, despite the terrible burn injuries that marred his left arm and the top of that side of his chest, although the desiccated flesh was beginning to show _slight_ tinges of pink beneath … he was also filled with total, irrefutable and irrevocable _lust_.

“I want to. And I want _you_.”

“What?” And Dean was looking back up, straight into his face, surprised and somewhat confused. Only to have his lips met by Sam’s and _devoured_ in a passionate kiss as the younger man tightened his hold around him and pulled their bodies fully together, _all_ the way down.

Then Sam was breaking away, just enough to be able to talk even as he began to taste every inch of Dean that he could reach with his mouth without releasing the embrace of his arms in any way: “I said: I _want_ to. I want _you_ , master.

I want your hands on me, your mouth on me, your body all _over_ mine. Not because I feel I should, but because I _want_ you.

I want to be _yours,_ Dean. Fully. Completely. With every inch of me.

And I want every single inch of _you_ , master.”

He was already exploring Dean, sucking, nibbling and licking at the older man’s neck and jaw, although he never once relaxed his hand from its position against the damaged spine, his long fingers spread instinctively to give maximum support where it was needed. He would _never_ risk letting Dean fall again.

The older man gasped: both from pleasure… a _lot_ of pleasure… and astonishment from Sam’s words. He could never have imagined…

He would never have _dared_ to dream that the amazing young man who he already loved so much might possibly… have some feelings for _him_ in return.

But… even though Dean wished it wasn’t… the throb of pain in his back was still over-riding everything else… “Sam? Sammy, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to lie down… I can’t…”

“Oh God, I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry, master.”

“S’okay… just…”

“Put your arms around my neck.”

And Dean was obeying instantly as Sam adjusted his position, sliding one arm behind the other’s legs while still keeping his other hand as that vital brace against his master’s back, and lifting him up as easily, and with as much love, as if they were newly-weds. “This okay? Am I hurting you?”

“Nah.”

Sam couldn’t help smiling even though he knew his master was lying, but then he was carrying him to the nearest bed, ready to set his precious load down as gently as he could and help Dean to lie on his right side, moving pillows and covers as necessary to make the older man as comfortable as possible… although he couldn’t help from running his fingers down the still naked back to the perfect curve of Dean’s ass as he did.

“Here.” And Sam was picking up the ice pack… Dean recognised it as being formed from the slave’s still blood encrusted t-shirt that he had been wearing since they left Bobby’s… and pressing it firmly against the still reddened area of his master’s back that he had been directing the hot water onto just a few short minutes before.

Dean hissed at the sudden chill against his skin. Sam felt a momentary panic. “Is it not working? Have I done it wrong?”

“No. No, it’s fine.” And the other was blinking a lot to try and contain the fact that his eyes were watering. “It’s just… _cold!_ But I think it’ll help… if it will just stay there without falling off…”

“I’ll make sure it does.” Then, to Dean’s surprise, Sam was using his long limbs to carefully clamber over his master, thrilling as the skin on their unclothed bodies slid and rubbed against each other’s, until he was also lying full length on the undersheet facing him, his hand and arm still tightly around his master to hold the ice where it was… and coincidentally, to be able to draw himself so close that there wasn’t any single place that the two of them _weren’t_ touching.

It felt natural to Dean to tip his head back where he lay, and allow Sam access to his mouth as the young man pressed their lips together once more. “This better, master?”

“Much.”

And they were kissing again, just about continually for the next few minutes until Dean was arching his back a little and trying to push Sam’s hand, which was still pressing the ice pack firmly in place, away. The slave was immediately responding, removing the now-dampening t-shirt and using his long reach to place it out of the way, before rewrapping his arm around his master and gazing fondly into the green eyes. “I’ll let you sleep now, if you want.”

“To hell with that!” And Dean was somehow impossibly wriggling closer, trying and failing to contain a wince of pain, but not caring.

Not now that he had discovered that Sam was the best thing he had _ever_ tasted.

The younger man was also having similar revelations as their lips joined again and the passion rose even more: his master’s body just seemed to fit perfectly with his own… and the way it felt when the older man was beneath him, was… _incredible_.

The slave came out of his ecstasy with a slight start. And looked down.

Somehow… Sam wasn’t sure how… they had turned as one during their make-out session. Whether he had pushed… or Dean had pulled… but somehow… he was now lying on _top_ of the other man. Between the spread bowed legs of his master. His _naked_ master. And _he_ was also fully unclothed. And the heat now between the both of them was… unbelievable.

“Dean?” He didn’t want to pause from what they doing… the way his hips were thrusting against his master’s pelvis seemed to mean that _they_ had cottoned on to the situation _far_ before his brain had… but he had to check…

The other seemed to know intuitively what his hesitation was: “What, Sammy? I think we can both agree that I am in no condition to be the ‘top’ in this relationship! As long as that’s okay with you?”

But there was suddenly a nervousness in his eyes: a vulnerability that Sam had only seen when Dean was at his most exhausted… or in terror at the approach of a hypodermic needle.

“Master? Have you ever _been_ with a man before?”

“Yes! Yep.” Sam was instantly worried: the second ‘yep’ had definitely been delivered with far less enthusiasm than the first, and Dean suddenly couldn’t meet his eyes directly, _despit_ e how they were both lying. “It’s just… I…” Then he sighed: “Not for a long time though, Sammy.

The instant Dad thought I was old enough to leave alone, he used to go off on Hunts and I was expected to… just get on with it: get myself to school, sort out food, just… _survive_ …

But then he’d often be away longer than he’d mean to, and… the room would need paying for, or I’d go hungry unless I…

And I couldn’t get away with hustling pool at _that_ age! _Or_ poker! So… there was only _one_ way…

He shrugged, but still didn’t look up. “Mostly blow-jobs... usually Truckers.  But occasionally… And I actually enjoyed a few. I mean… But there were others that I felt…

Dean was getting upset. Sam could _see_ he was getting upset. “… _dirty_ after. And not the good kind of dirty...”

The green eyes now sought out the younger man’s, pleading for understanding. “But not _you_. I… I trust _you_ , Sam. I… I’d like you to…”

The sudden silence in the room was deafening.

Dean felt his heart sink.

His arousal died as spontaneously as it had ignited, and he began to try and push the slave off. “Sorry. I guess I… I should have known that you don’t _really_ want…

 I meant it, Sam: I would _never_ force you… or expect you to…

And I _get_ it. I’m a cripple. Completely _useless_. You can do better than me. _Much_ better.

And now you know that I did _that_ … Not like _you_ had to. Not because I was forced, or had no choice… I just did it to…

Anyway.” And he was still struggling to shove Sam away at all, as the solidly built younger man’s body seemed to be as immoveable as a ten ton rock. But he kept trying, determinedly avoiding looking at his face to keep from seeing the disgust that must be now in the slave’s expression. “That receptionist certainly liked the look of you. And I don’t think that collar,” he indicated the dark brown leather slave band around the other’s neck, the one that _he_ had chosen for him, and the only item of clothing that Sam had on at that particular moment, “will put her off….

In fact, I think it’s more a _turn-on!_ ”

“Dean?”

With a sigh, he forced himself to look up… into the young man’s eyes... and to his amazement, they were smiling down at him.

“ _Shut_ up, master.”

And Sam was lowering his upper body enough to kiss Dean again. He didn’t stop kissing his master even as he was suddenly talking… “Nobody else has _ever_ … I’ve been forced down; tied down; beaten down. Done lots of things that I’ve hated: had lots of things done to me. But nobody else has _ever_ offered for _me_ to… And I _want_ , master.”

His voice lowered suddenly to a growl, almost a snarl… of want; of possession… of _ownership._ “I want _you_.” The passionate caress of his lips on the older man were now giving way to nips to his surrounding skin, on his cheeks, down his jaw… and a couple of quite hard bites to Dean’s neck that made the older man flinch. “I will _always_ want you! I don’t _care_ what you’ve had to do, and I’m certainly not going off with some… _woman,_ no matter _what_ you think!

You’re _mine_ , master!”

He drew back enough to let Dean catch his breath. The older man stared up at him incredulously, seeing once again the intensity that he had noticed in Sam’s eyes on previous occasions: an intensity focused fully on _him…_ he could feel the slave’s possessiveness in the way the large hands were grasping him, he could hear the steely determination in his words… and the innate domination in the younger man that was becoming all too apparent with the realisation that Sam now had him _fully_ pinned down to the bed by his wrists.

And the way that strong, firm, insanely muscled… stunningly _perfect_ body felt over _his?_

 _Dean_ wanted, as well.

Without realising it, he licked his lips: an action that caused Sam’s unblinking gaze to focus on them instantly. But even as he was once more moving in to take what, with good reason, he now considered to be _his,_ Dean finally recovered enough to be able to respond. “Sammy?”

“Yes, master?” As his mouth once more closed over the older man’s.

He felt Dean shiver a little beneath him: “I think… in _this_ context… _you_ calling _me_ master might be getting it slightly _wrong_ …”

Sam chuckled a little even as his tongue licked at Dean’s lower lip to gain entry to his mouth. “Does that mean _you_ get to wear the collar?”

Then a second, _physical_ shiver from the man he was lying on made him pause and pull away slightly, enough to just catch a flash of the green eyes looking up at him through their long lashes as Dean mumbled somewhat bashfully: “I just might, Sammy. I just _might_.”

The younger man really liked the thought of _that_. And of _everything_ that the beautiful man beneath him was offering him right at that moment. But…

“I’m going to make it _amazing_ for you, Dean. I really am. You’re not going to be ashamed of being with _me_ : I’m not going to make you feel dirty. _Except_ for in the good way.” He smirked down at him, and Dean smiled back, his eyes twinkling. “ _I’m_ gonna have you _begging_ for me! But not right now…

Because what _I_ want to do to you, your back just can’t _take_ at the moment. So…” And Sam was kissing Dean one last time, before moving himself back a little until he was kneeling on the mattress between the other’s spread legs. ”Your choice, master: blow job? Or I _ride_ you?”

He could feel his own dimples almost boring through his cheeks, his grin got so broad at the way the other’s eyes widened and Dean’s jaw dropped open. “Oh _God_ , yes!”

But his excitement halted with shock as Sam simply spat into the palm of his large right hand and went to finger himself open. “Dude! _Lube!_ In my jacket pocket… where ever I put my jacket…?”

“It’s in the bathroom, master.” And Sam was hurrying to fetch it, with Dean watching him intently all the way: the young man’s erection was so hard that it was scarcely able to bounce at all with any of his strides. His own cock grew full again with anticipation.

Sam returned quickly, holding not only the small container, but a packet of condoms. “Master, do you always use one of these?”

“Yeah, _always_ , Sammy. Always have.”

He forced his eyes away from the slave’s groin as the other came back to sit on the bed beside where he was still laying, and instead stared up at his face. Sam smiled and held out his hand… his dimples again going deep as Dean took it in his own damaged hand with total trust.

“One rule that the slave auctions have is that we have to be clean… any sign of any ‘infection’ of any sort and we were on antibiotics: if anything got passed on to a new master or mistress then the auction house could be liable…”

“So, what are you…?” But Dean already knew what Sam was asking… or he _hoped_ he did…

“I want it all, Dean. Want all of you. Want to feel _everything_ … _Please_ …” 

And the older man was nodding, as in almost a daze… “Yeah, okay, Sammy… okay.”

“Oh, _master_ …” And Sam was leaning over to kiss him deeply once more, plundering his mouth without hesitation, not even _thinking_ to ask permission any more.

Even as they kissed, Dean began to run his hand along the younger man’s naked perfectly formed right shoulder, following the line of muscles down his arm until he could once more touch his right hand… and continue down to find out what Sam was doing with his fingers… and feel for himself that two of them were already embedded deeply into the slave’s own ass. “Turn.”

“What?”

“Turn round. Let me see.”

Sam felt his face blaze crimson with embarrassment at the order, but… he was also excited, and more aroused than he had ever thought possible at the thought. He moved to the other side of the small bed where there was slightly more room and knelt up on the mattress beside Dean, but facing away so that he was looking towards his master’s feet.

Then he _did_ hesitate, but only momentarily before reaching round to continue to finger himself. The momentary heat of shame that seemed to be threatening to burn his ears right off his head gradually subsided, to be replaced with a new flush of arousal, encouraged and heightened when he heard his master moan with sexual fervour and shift his position on the mattress a little to try and get closer.

Sam held his breath with anticipation, his hand stilling slightly… and then his eyes were closing as he felt the gentle fingers of Dean’s calloused right hand stroke up the outside of his own strong right thigh, with as soft a caress as Sam himself had once used upon his Mistress Ruby.

He kept his eyes tightly shut and savoured the touch as his master’s palm travelled slowly up his leg until it was cupping Sam’s tight, firm right buttock. “Oh, Sammy.” It was almost whispered in reverence.

A reverence that Sam could only silently echo as his own voice seemed to have vanished momentarily, aside from a keening noise that he didn’t quite recognise as coming from _him_. Then the hand was moving again until Dean’s finger… just his index finger… was smoothing up the _inside_ of his thigh.

Sam felt that he had never known _anything_ as erotic as that soft, almost- _not_ -a-touch.

But then he was immediately changing his mind, as his master’s hand was now beside his own. His _fingers_ were running along Sam’s own, and that by _far_ surpassed anything else. “May I?”

“Oh, please.” Sam breathed. “Please, please, please, please, please, please, _please_.”

“Not so much of the master, now, eh?”

The slave ignored the smirk in Dean’s voice with a smile. It didn’t matter. He would beg on his knees every night if the older man would just touch him like this…

He would do _anything_ if Dean would only carry on and do what Sam was so _hoping_ he would…

“Lube.” And Sam fumbled with his slightly trembling free left hand to pass the container behind him, and waited, hardly daring to breathe…

And then he felt Dean gently pushing one of his fingers in beside Sam’s own. And they were _both_ moaning with lust.

“Let me.”

The slave obeyed instantly, removing his own hand to instead rest up fully beside the older man on the small bed, bracing himself on all fours and pushing back with increasingly loud pants of pleasure as his master breached him now with _his_ two fingers. Then Dean was twisting his digits just… _so_ … and… Sam lost control, coming with a loud roar of euphoria all over himself, the bed, and Dean.

His voice trembled and failed completely after. As did his limbs. Sam all but collapsed with the afterglow of pleasure, unaware that he was slightly squashing the other man as he did, as there was hardly any room on the single bed for them both, not that either of them cared. He lay and recovered his breath, his body still tingling, and his cock still pulsing.

Then Sam suddenly felt really ashamed. “I’m so sorry, master: I couldn’t stop myself… Am I hurting you?”

Dean’s only response was a hoarse chuckle: “Goddamn, Sammy. That was… so… _hot._

 _So_ … hot!”

And Sam became aware that his master’s fingers were still inside him, and still idly twisting and spreading, and… he was already becoming aroused again just from that, and he was still lying beside… well, half sprawled across… the other’s beautiful and completely naked body… and he still _wanted_.

Hastily, he struggled back up onto his four now extremely shaky limbs. “May I ride you now, master?”

“Do you think you still can? I mean… do you still want to?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

“Then let’s finish getting you prepped…” And Dean was reaching to open the lubricant again, although, being now one-handed, he had to enlist the assistance of his teeth to grip the cap with…

But Sam was already removing it from his hand and throwing the small container onto the floor out of the way, while he shifted his position once again on the mattress to kneel facing Dean, straddling both of his legs with his own long, slim ones. “I’m ready _now._ ” Then his attention was caught by the splatters of his own cum on his master’s body and instinctively he leant forward on his forearms to get his mouth close enough to lick them off.

Dean arched his back involuntarily, not quite able to contain the wince that that action had resulted in, but completely uncaring about anything but the warm heat of Sam’s tongue lapping against his skin: “Keep doing _that_ , and I’m gonna blow before your ass gets anywhere near!”

It was Sam’s turn to smirk: “Sure you’re going to last, old man?”

“You don’t even know _how_ old you are!” Dean retorted even as his back arched again. “You could be _fifty_ for all we know, and just unfairly and ridiculously young looking! And I’ll make _sure_ I’ll last, Sammy. Long as _you’re_ read…?”

His words were cut off abruptly by the younger man removing his tongue from Dean’s body to instead plunder his master’s open mouth. “I’ve been ready since the day I met you!” Sam whispered with a grin.

Even as the kiss became more passionate, Sam was moving himself into position and reaching between his long legs to gently grasp Dean’s cock. Holding it steady, he lowered himself down… eyes closing in pleasure as all his hopes and dreams came true. His master felt amazing.

His master _was_ amazing.

“Sam? You okay?” The younger man’s heart was touched by the genuine concern in Dean’s voice, even as his cock responded to the demanding touch of the older man’s hands as they settled on the outside of each of his hips.

He sighed with luxurious pleasure: “Oh… _yeah_ …“ He began to grind, luxuriating in every single new sensation. “I never thought I’d _want_ this… Not from _anyone_ …

Not until I met _you_ , master.

I want… _everything_ … I’d _take_ everything… from _you_ … _Dean_ …”

He was already moving his hips, thrilling as Dean’s hands tightened their grip enough to leave bruises on his pale, rarely exposed skin. Sam didn’t think that his master would last very long… he didn’t think that his master _could_ last very long… the anticipation for _both_ of them had been such a build-up...

But Dean was proving him wrong. Whereas Sam himself, despite having already come twice that day, was already close to a third, because the older man, having explored with his fingers, was now gently forcing his body to be at _exactly_ the perfect angle… he had deliberately seized the slave’s slim hips to be able to control his movements… and every thrust… every slight jiggle… was _nailing_ Sam’s prostate…

 _Every…_ _single… fucking… time_.

“Dean! Please!!” Sam didn’t know what he was pleading for… he couldn’t even have said whether he was shouting, moaning, whimpering… or even capable of conscious thought.

“Sammy….?” There was a slight teasing tone in the deep voice even though Dean was smiling up at him, all be it with a slightly glazed, blissed-out expression on his face.

“Master! _Please!!”_

This time, the response was a definite grin.

“Come for me, Sammy.”

And the slave did, with an explosive gush that seemed to sap the last of his strength completely, in the best way he had _ever_ known.

Dean followed almost immediately, growling out his own pleasure and pulsing deeply inside the younger man.

It seemed a long time before either could speak again. They had collapsed into a mutual heap of bonelessness on the bed, both completely spent. Eventually Sam recovered himself to raise himself onto his elbows, as enough awareness crept through him that he was probably squashing Dean… yet again. He smiled down as he met the tired-looking, but equally contented green eyes.

Then Sam was anxious again: “Your back? Have I made it worse?”

Dean sighed, and paused for a long moment before responding. “I’ve long since learnt not to bother even _trying_ to lie to you, Sammy… so…no, _you_ haven’t hurt it but… my back is freaking _killing_ me!

But the rest of me feels _incredible!_ ” he hastily added as the younger man just about chewed through his own lower lip from guilt and remorse. “ _You_ are incredible. And I want to do that again, if that’s alright with you…”

He grinned as Sam visibly relaxed. But the slave was still worried. “Shall I get you some more ice?”

“Nah.” And Dean was already closing his eyes, exhausted through the events of the day, and the pain through his back… and the blissful release that follows really _incredible_ sex. “Right now, I just need rest. Will…? Will you hold me, Sammy? Would that be okay? Just until I fall asleep, and then you can do whatever… get yourself some food, or watch the TV…”

“More than okay, master!” Sam was already climbing off him, moving instead to lie beside the other on the slightly less sticky side of the bed. Dean took the hint and struggled to shift once again onto his right side, the younger man helping him gently and trying to support the damaged part of his spine before settling behind him, wrapping his strong arms around his master to be the larger spoon, and pulling the covers over them both. “Where you go from now on, that’s where I’m going to be. And we’re going to do that, a lot! You’re stuck with me, Dean!”

Then the slave was hesitating, suddenly nervous that he was being _too_ outspoken: “...If that’s okay, master?”

Dean was almost already asleep in the warmth of his embrace. “Sounds good to me, Ss..Sammy.” The words were almost mumbled in a slur as his eyes fully closed. “Sam’n’Dean ‘gainst the world…” Then his voice was trailing off as sleep took over…

And as the slave nuzzled his face into his master’s soft hair and also settled to try and rest… he thought that he had never heard anything else sound so _perfect_ as that.

Not _ever_.

 


	12. Home Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay in posting, especially to elliesamanddeangirl to whom I have been promising the next update for far too long!

Bobby put down his morning coffee in amazement and glanced at the time: it had only just gone eight in the morning, but that was definitely the purr of the Impala he could hear heading towards the house… He couldn’t help but smile: _damn_ , but he had missed that sound!

He took a minute to appreciate how smooth she sounded: Dean had done an amazing job on her. Even after a few months of hardly being run, the car still sounded better than it _ever_ had when John had owned her.  Then he was glancing at himself in the mirror and practising putting on a solemn expression: he might have been thrilled and relieved that something had _finally_ made Dean push himself to go willingly out of the house, but he wasn’t quite so ecstatic that he had been such an _idgit_ to get back behind the wheel. What the hell had he been thinking?

And dragging that poor innocent young slave along with him…?

Bobby could _kill_ him.

But at least he had managed to save Garth… _another_ freakin’ stupid idgit. The whole danged world seemed to be _full_ of idgits, and somehow Bobby knew them _all_ …

But when Dean got back? Well, Bobby was damned well chaining the god-damned biggest idgit _ever_ boy into his god-damned wheelchair and throwing the god-damned key away!

With that in mind, he went out to greet the Impala as it pulled into the yard, ready to start yelling…

….only to have the strict expression on his face morph into one of amazement as he realised that it was _Sam_ who was carefully steering the smart black vehicle up to the house, with knuckles white from concentration on the wheel but the widest grin on his face that Bobby had ever seen.

“What in tarnation…!”

“Hey, Bobby.” Dean called through the open passenger side window. “We figured this was as good a time as any… Don’t forget the parking brake, Sam.”

And the younger man was obeying before carefully turning the key off in the ignition and then sitting back in the driver’s seat: a strange mixture of relief and exultation in his expression. “I did it!”

“You sure as hell _did_.” Dean’s voice gave away his pride.

Bobby rolled his eyes in exasperation even as he was moving to open the passenger door: “You decided that _this_ would be a good time to teach Sam to drive: have you lost your frigging _mind_ …?”

But he was immediately hiding his disbelief as the younger man hurried around from the other side of the Impala, wearing what had obviously been only recently pristinely folded brand new shirts and denims that all but squeaked from their starched rigidness, his face paling as he took in Bobby’s angry vexation. “We thought… I mean, my master thought…”

“ _I_ thought that the roads were quiet: it’s still early… it would be a straight two or so hour drive back here once we’d cleared the town… and that it would be _sensible_ for Sam to be able to… Because he could help me, and _you_ , more if he could…” Dean was immensely irritated at the unfair attack on Sam and verbally hurried to his defence even while still inside the vehicle. “ _Plus_ , my fucking back is killing me every time I try and move the pedals but _you_ insisted we were to come back as soon as possible… or yesterday… I think the actual words you used were ‘get your asses back here pronto, you stupid pair of idgits’…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay…” And the older man was removing his cap to scratch at his head in frustration. “I guess…”

“Go’on, Sammy…” And the slave was hurrying to obey his master’s order and running straight into the house.

Bobby stared after him: “What’s _his_ haste?”

His surrogate son sighed. “He’s gone to get me my meds… the _strong_ ones. Because, right now Bobby, I really need them…”

“You’re not overdoing it again, are ya? How many you taken lately?”

“None, Bobby. That’s the problem.”

“ _What!!_ You’re meant to take them _regularly_ , ya idgit! What do ya think regularly _means_ , dumb-ass? Once every other _Tuesday?_ ”

“Here, master.”

 And Sam was back already with the container of tablets and a glass of water, kneeling beside the open door of the car to hand them to his beloved master. “Sammy. Get up, will you!”

“Not until I’ve seen you take these.” And he was smiling up at the older man, his eyes full of love… which quickly disappeared as Bobby started yelling…

“What the hell does he _mean_ , he ain’t had his meds!?” Sam felt real terror as the old man was advancing on him as he knelt in the dirt. Desperately he reached up to Dean for support and felt tears prick his eyes as, despite the pain that the other man was obviously in, he was instantly leaning forward enough to instinctively wrap his arms protectively around him. “You were meant to be in _charge_ of them! What have you been _doing?_ ”

“Leave him alone, Bobby. It’s _my_ fault, not his!” Dean was shaking now, and not just from anger. The pain through his back was now harsh enough to make him want to vomit the hastily swallowed tablets back up… but there was no _way_ that he was going to let Sam take this unfair abuse.

It took an immense effort but with a lot of pulling against the door frame, and a little pushing up against Sam’s strong form where he was still on the ground beside his knees, he managed to get to his feet and take a carefully balanced step forward… not even registering that he had kept one hand remaining on the slave’s shoulder as much-needed support, with the young man automatically covering Dean’s with his own while being ready to catch him just in case… to deliberately put himself physically between the two other men as he faced down the angry Bobby. “ _I_ didn’t give him a choice!

Well…” he corrected himself. “To be more exact, I _did_. It was either get in the Impala _now_ or be left behind! And he was worried about me being on my own, as per _your_ instructions…”

“ _Don’t_ cha get clever with me, ya flamin’ stupid _jackass!_ What the _hell_ were you thinking?! You could’ve gotten killed, ya idgit! Worse: you could’ve gotten _him_ killed!” And Bobby was indicating the scared Sam as he crouched desperately behind his master, trying not to give in to the inclination to cling to Dean’s knees… and suddenly taking the image in. “Oh, for…!”

His anger subsided as quickly as it had arisen: “Let’s get you inside. Both of ya. How bad is it?”

Dean couldn’t help the loudness of his exhausted sigh: “Bad enough, Bobby.”

The old man hurried to fetch the wheelchair out of the rear of the car, opening it up ready even as Sam managed to swallow down his terror, tears still threatening to overspill from his eyes, and struggled to his feet in order to help as Dean now took a firm grip on the driver’s door of his beloved Baby with the intention of using it as a counter weight.

But before he could start to try and sit down into the now waiting seat, the young man was there: placing his feet in a secure stance either side of Dean’s so as to be able to help him lower himself: smiling a little now as his stubborn master deliberately tried to struggle out of his solid grasp and try and control his descent into the chair himself… before a hitch and an obvious spasm of pain shot through his back, making him gasp and wince simultaneously and momentarily freeze in the position he currently was: unwilling and unable to try and move more in _either_ direction!

It was instinctive for Sam to wrap one arm around the older man, his hand finding the natural curve of his spine and his long fingers immediately splaying to provide much-needed support where he knew where the pain was emanating from: “Hold onto me, master. I’ve got you.”

Then he couldn’t help but smile a deep-dimpled smile as he felt the warm breath that wafted against the exposed skin of his neck and top of his chest: the older man had looked up into the earnestness of his eyes, registered the threatened but very _definite_ promise that in the very next minute he was either going to be helped to settle into that accursed wheeled monstrosity or… far more embarrassingly… be physically carried into Bobby’s house as an invalid, and had sighed a deep sigh in response before choosing to take the former of the two evils.

Obediently therefore … but not without his cheeks reddening from the embarrassment of proving yet again to be so useless… Dean moved his arms up until his hands were connecting around the back of the young man’s broad shoulders, trying to control another spasm of pain at the movement, and allowed Sam to take his full weight momentarily before the slave was gently beginning to lower him into the chair as if he were the most delicate piece of fancy fine porcelain that ever had been created.

The instant that the older man had been safely deposited into the waiting seat, Sam was promptly crouching in front of him again, pulling the footrest forward with one hand and helping Dean to put his feet up on it, while his other nonchalantly rested on his master’s knee, the long thumb idly stroking and smoothing against the still filth-covered denims.

Dean felt his blush deepening.

Especially when Bobby also moved into the view that the corner of his eye gave him: “Anything need to come out? Where’s your weaponry bag? Here, give it here…”

And the old man was leaning once more into the rear of the Impala, ready to haul the battered old holdall out, just as Sam began to get to his feet again, leaning over Dean as he did with _both_ his hands placed gently on his master’s legs now… leaning _closely_ over Dean as he did, sliding his hands back up the sitting man’s body in a now easy, accustomed motion while his face… complete with a gentle sweet, all-world-encompassing smile… drew nearer to the other’s with every new inch of movement…

For Sam was looking straight at Dean…

For Sam was _smiling_ straight at Dean with that intense show of love in his eyes that was and probably would always manage to take the older man’s breath away and make him wonder who it could possibly be for, because _he_ didn’t deserve such devotion…

And Sam’s mouth was coming closer to Dean’s as he was staring straight into his eyes and smiling that smile of such devotion, as he was getting his booted feet beneath him ready to fully stand up, but still somehow managing to lean over Dean…

It looked like… it _felt_ that… Sam was going to kiss him.

Dean felt a sweat of panic start to build up and break through his embarrassment.

What if Sam _did_ kiss him?

What if Sam did kiss him and Bobby saw?

What if Bobby saw and didn’t like it?

What if Bobby thought it was disgusting…?

What if _Bobby_ thought _he_ was disgusting…?

What would Bobby _say_ about it…?

Dean was pushing the younger man away abruptly before even _he_ had realised what he was doing, catching the slave off balance and causing him to stumble back a step or two to try and stop himself from falling over completely: “I can take it from here, thanks Sammy. I’m fine wheeling myself in.”

And then Dean was feeling like shit when he saw the look of surprise on the younger man’s face turn almost instantly into one of intense _hurt_. Accompanied by once again watery eyes…

But Sam didn’t say a word. He just straightened up and stepped round to take hold of the handles of the wheelchair, and silently began to push Dean into the house anyway…

And the older man felt even worse.

Luckily Bobby was now in full-on clucking mother-hen mode around them and didn’t notice the sudden uncomfortable silence: “I’ll sort through this and make sure everything’s cleaned. You take Dean on through to your room, Sam: get him in that bed and try and get it comfortable for him. Ya hungry, boy? I’ve bet _you’ve_ not bothered to eat for worry about _that_ idgit! I’ll get some breakfast done: you can come back to the kitchen when you’re ready or I’ll bring something through for ya both…

Well, _go_ on then! Get on in!”

And the back door was being shut behind them, the heavy bag was being deposited beside the kitchen table, and the old man was already bending to rummage through the cupboards. “And Dean?”

“Yeah Bobby?” The wheelchair bound man recovered himself enough to answer even as Sam began to push him through into the hallway.

“I’m calling the doc.”

“What? Oh… no. Bobby, _no!_ I don’t need him!”

“ _Tough_. Suck it up, ya flamin’ _moron!_ ”

Dean was still muttering beneath his breath as they entered their room: Sam still hadn’t made a sound. Not even as he moved across to the hospital bed and began to pull the covers down…

“I ain’t getting into bed, Sammy! _Despite_ what Bobby thinks! I’ll lie on top. And… I’m sorry about… well, what happened outside. I… er…” Dean’s words stumbled and stuttered to a halt as shame and guilt overcame him again. “I didn’t mean to… I… It’s just… Bobby was there and I wasn’t sure how he’d…

I’ve never told _anyone_ , Sam.

I’ve never _dared_.”

 “Am I to be your dirty little secret, master?”

The older man looked up at him in surprise, momentarily silenced both by the abruptness in how Sam had just spoken, _and_ by the whispered earnest desperation of his next words: “Because I _will_ , Dean. If that’s what you want. I’d be anything. _Anything_. Just as long as you still want me…

Just please don’t say that this was only… that it meant nothing and you were only…

 _Please_ don’t say that yesterday was _nothing_ , master…”

Dean sat straight in his wheelchair and stared up at the younger man who should have been towering over him at that point… but wasn’t. Somehow Sam was hunching himself up; his broad shoulders were visibly sagging and the, only that few short minutes before, so tall and proud body now gave the impression of collapsing into itself.

And Sam was biting the inside of his lips nervously: Dean could see a slight trickle of blood escaping his mouth. And the long fingers were wringing together then flicking out as if trying to control intense emotions... but failing miserably.

And Sam’s eyes…

He was crying. The beautiful hazel orbs were overflowing: his entire expression was as anxious and as full of despair as… if had been when he had arrived as a battered, brutalised being at Bobby’s house those few short months ago…

It had only taken that one push.

Dean sat and stared at Sam with eyes wide open in shock.

And sudden intense self-disgust.

 _More_ than self-disgust. Dean had never felt such self-loathing as he had at that particular moment… and _that_ , to be honest, was _saying_ something! He felt almost _nauseous_ from shame…

“No.”

“What?” Sam blinked as the older man suddenly didn’t seem to be able to meet his eyes yet had spoken the word with such _decisiveness._ "What, master…?”

“No. you are not just a dirty little secret, Sammy.” And Dean was looking back up at him: the green eyes now a strange shining mixture of defiance and fear. “You are _definitely_ not that. You’re my whole _world_ and I’m so _sorry_ with what I did just then. I should never have done that. I’d _never_ hurt you: it would _kill_ me if you…

 You’re right, I’m…

You deserve somebody so much _better_ than me, Sam, but…”

He was now glancing around the room, turning his head from side to side as if trying to find something solid, something to get his thoughts concentrated onto. Dean’s eyes fell onto the other bag that he had left beside the chest of drawers, the one that was _still_ half-packed with clothes… and it seemed to act as a focus. “Grab that and get as much of your stuff as you can into it. We might have to get out of here in a hurry!”

 “Master?”

But Dean was already trying to turn the wheelchair around: “I’m going to go and see Bobby… I… I don’t know how he’s gonna react, Sammy. If it was my _dad_ , then… well…

I don’t know how _Bobby’s_ gonna react…

But you’re _far_ more to me than a dirty secret, Sam. You’re my… you’re my _everything!_ ”

And with that he was propelling himself back through the hallway. Sam stared after him, still blinking back the tears but now all too aware of the sheen of pained perspiration that had covered Dean’s forehead even with that small effort, and the tightness of his lips from the obvious jarring pain in his spine caused by the forced movements of his arms. It would still take a few minutes for the strong pain-killers to begin to kick in and the slave desperately wanted to go and help his master, but…

Hastily he did as he had just been ordered and frantically began to snatch the still relatively few belongings out of the chest of drawers, determined that he would only take the same meagre amount as his master had in total, and making sure to leave room for the vital medication this time…

By now, Dean had reached the kitchen and was sitting in the doorway momentarily to quietly watch Bobby as the other began to fry some bacon in a large pan on the hob. On the table there were already cutlery, plates and maple syrup… and Dean didn’t have to ask to know that it would be his favourite pancakes that would be cooking any minute…

He sighed: he didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to risk having to face seeing complete disgust on the face of the only person he had ever really called family… but… he had just let Sam down so badly… and Dean was determined that, no matter what, he would _never_ be doing that again.

“Bobby?”

The old man startled and looked round in surprise: “Dean? What in tarnation are _you_ doing there? You’re supposed to be resting that _back_ , ya idgit! Go’on git! I’ll bring this in to ya…”

“Bobby, I need to talk to you.”

The other stared down at him… then nodded even as he turned the bacon with a long spatula before reducing the heat under the pan and then standing to lean with his back against the counter. “What is it, boy? You’re paler than a Woman in White.”

“It’s… I… You see, it’s.”

“Spit it out, boy.”

“It…” Dean closed his eyes, took a deep breath and tried again. “I… I know it’s not something that we’ve ever talked about. Well,” he corrected himself: “this isn’t anything I’ve _ever_ wanted to discuss with you, but…”

“C’mon Dean, this is creeping slower than molasses.” And Bobby was leaning across to tend the bacon again, his attention slipping…

“I… what does that even _mean_ , Bobby? Anyway,” Dean shook his head at himself: now was not the time for getting distracted.  “I... I know I talk a lot about girls, Bobby… I know I embarrass you a _lot_ about talking about girls… well, I used to, before…

But I…

Well, I’ve been with _men_ as well. I _like_ being with men as well. I like _both_.” He tried to clarify as Bobby stopped what he was doing and instead gazed at Dean with wide eyes. “What I’m trying to say is that… I like _Sam_ …”

He sat in the chair and twisted his hands together nervously in his lap: he couldn’t help it. “I… He’s… I like him a _lot,_ Bobby.”

“Now you just hold it right _there!_ ” Dean’s stomach contracted unexpectedly and fiercely at the anger in the old man’s suddenly raised voice. “You better not be telling me what I _think_ you’re telling me! You even _think_ of corrupting that boy… after _everything_ he’s been through! I’ll _skin_ ’ya if you touch him! He’s been raped repeatedly: he’s told us _both_ about it… and you just think that you can… because you _like_ him…!

You leave him _alone_ , Dean Winchester! I’m _ashamed_ of you for even _thinking_ it…!”

By this time, he had advanced on the wheelchair-trapped man, waving the spatula threateningly in his face, causing blobs of hot bacon grease to both splatter on the floor and onto Dean’s clothes. “I mean it, boy! I don’t care what or who you ‘like’,” he snarled, “but you touch _one_ hair on Sam’s head and I’ll… I’ll…”

“Bobby, I…” But Dean couldn’t find the words to defend himself. He had hurriedly tried to back the chair away but the right wheel had caught on the doorframe, effectively imprisoning him in the kitchen. He was distraught. He felt that he was going to be sick. He had hoped…

… Oh _God_ , he had hoped… that Bobby would… if not actually _understand_ , then at least _accept_ …

But perhaps the old man was right. Perhaps Dean was just a sick individual. Perhaps everything his dad had always said was true: that it wasn’t _natural_ to have desire for someone of the same sex… and… well, why would anyone ever care for him _anyway_ …?

Dean’s breath began to catch in his throat: his heart started to pound hard enough in his chest to reverberate throughout his whole body as his wretched thoughts continued…

John had always _told_ him that he was just useless and a liability… and selfish and lazy, and clumsy as shit, and that nobody would be _stupid_ enough to ever want to be with him…

Of course, _Sam_ was only there because he had no choice… he was _owned_ by Dean after all…

Sam probably _detested_ every single touch. He probably thought that Dean was just as perverted as the rest of his masters had been. He was probably vomiting in the bathroom right now at the thought of being alone with Dean for even one more minute…

Dad had been right. _Bobby_ was right.

There was something _wrong_ with him…

He should never have survived that crash.

It should have been _him_ who burnt to death.

Not for the first time in the last few months, Dean closed his now streaming-with-tears eyes, fought to try and get some air in his lungs, and wished with all his heart to be able to turn the clock back. He would swap their positions in the car if only he could. Then his dad could have just walked away.

It would have been better for _everyone_ if John Winchester had just walked away from him in that fire all those years ago as well…

How Dean _wished_ he had…

He fucking well _should_ have…

“Master? Dean? _Dean?_ Shit!” And Sam was there, on his knees beside him once again, reaching up with his long arms to grasp the now distraught older man’s face tightly in his hands: trying to get Dean to focus on him and him only. “ _Please_ , master. Look at me. _Look_ at me!

That’s it.” As the red-rimmed watery green eyes opened and tried to focus on him. “That’s it. Breathe, master. Just breathe… nice and slow… in… out… in…

Don’t you _touch_ him!” This was to Bobby who was now hurrying to stand next to him, stunned and feeling somewhat guilty by the suddenness and strength of the panic attack. Dean was still hyperventilating, but he was beginning to calm at the young man’s touch. “ _You_ did this! How could you _do_ this to him?!”

“ _Me?!”_ Bobby was incredulous at the rage in Sam’s eyes. Dean had told him about how angry Sam had been all those months ago when he had had his accident in the yard but he hadn’t really believed that the gentle young man could look so… His nostrils were flared, his jaw was gripped so tight that it looked to be as immovable as granite and his eyes…? Bobby shuddered at the black _fury_ in them.

And right now, it was all being directed at _him_.

 “I didn’t mean to cause _this_ , Sam.” The old man tried to explain. “I certainly didn’t mean to _shout_ at him.  But… what he was saying… I know you two have gotten _close_ but… You’ve been through enough, boy: you shouldn’t have to worry about him making advances on you…”

“ _I_ made them on _him!”_

_“What?”_

But Sam was now standing up to his full height, and right in his face… or to be more exact, a few inches above, towering over the older man and glaring down at him with such _ferocity_ that Bobby found himself backing away…

Backing _right_ away…

“I want _him!_ I have from the moment I _arrived_ here: why do you think I’ve wanted to be in his room every night? Because I’ve been hoping he’ll let me come into his _bed!_

And last night, at the motel, I got up the courage to tell him how I feel… and he felt the same. And it was wonderful, Bobby. To know that he loves me…

He _loves_ me, Bobby.

All he was doing, was coming to tell you…”

Bobby stared up at him, just about speechless… Well… _almost_ …

“ _Balls.”_

Sam’s ire was dying down now as concern for his beautiful master overrode everything else: the old man was forgotten as he returned to Dean’s side.

“Dean? Dean.” His hands were holding the other’s face again, but with more gentleness this time as the older man’s breathing was not so desperate and the green eyes seemed to be seeing Sam again, rather than lost in whatever terrible thoughts he had been seeing in his mind… “It’s okay. I’m here. _I’m_ here.”

He couldn’t have stopped himself from kissing Dean if he had wanted to.

And Sam didn’t _want_ to…

It was Bobby who found himself blushing a little at the tenderness shown between the two younger men whom he loved so much… Dean slowly came down from the overwhelming anxiety attack in response to Sam’s touch both whispering over his lips and the long fingers that were now lovingly stroking at his chest, just about over where his heart was gradually slowing to a more normal rate… “I got you, master. I always will.”

“You _shouldn’t!_ ” The words burst out from the wheelchair bound man as harsh reality finally caught up with the overwhelming misery of his thoughts and shot him back fully into the present. “Why are you wasting your time with me, Sam? Look at me, I’m _useless!_ I’m no good to anyone! I never _have_ been!

Bobby’s right! I’m no good for you! And I’m sick… _sick_ in the _head!_ You should get the hell away from me…

Everyone I love always dies! You should _run_ , Sammy…”

“I’m not running anywhere, Dean.” Sam stood up on his knees so that he could get his arms right around the older man and hold him close into his own chest…

“You should. You _should_ …”

“I’m. Not. Running. _Anywhere_.”

It was said so sternly. So authoritively. So _decisively_ that it actually managed to quieten Dean down. He fell silent and stared at Sam, still slightly dazed and damp-eyed…

… And one last tear escaped the green lagoon to trickle down his wet-tracked cheek.

Sam smiled at him and leant forward for another kiss before resting their foreheads together: one large hand now around the back of Dean’s head, stroking through the short sweaty hair while the other was still tight around the other’s shoulders. “Let’s get you out of here,” he whispered, and felt his master nod against him.

The young man moved to stand up, unable to resist pressing his lips against Dean’s once again even as he did. Then, with a single step to one side, he was picking up the now-stuffed full of clothes holdall from where he had simply dropped it upon seeing how distraught the other man had become, and was moving to fetch the medication from the top shelf of the highest cupboard in the kitchen where he kept it so to be deliberately out of his master’s reach.

“What’cha doing, boy?”  Bobby was shame-faced but wide-eyed. “Why are you getting it all down?”

“We’ll be getting out of your way, Bobby.”

 And Dean was nodding sadly, still far too pale, pink-eyed and slightly snotty-nosed, and started to propel himself towards the back door even as Sam secured all the tablets and the single jar of ointment from the refrigerator into the bag.

“Now hold on…!” The old man was hastily moving to intercept the wheelchair and its occupant. “Where in tarnation are you two boys _going?_ ”

“I don’t know, Bobby.” Sam answered shortly, even as his large strides made sure that he caught up to his master enough to put himself solidly between the two other men. “But I’m not letting Dean stay here, not if you have a problem about us being together…”

“I ain’t _got_ a problem… I mean… Goddamn it, boy. I thought…” Bobby found himself blustering and conceded defeat: “Hell, I don’t _know_ what I thought…

I’m so sorry, boy.” This was to Dean. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions: I _know_ you’d never… Aw, hell…”

 _His_ eyes weren’t prickling with moisture: dammit, he never _did_ that…

But then somehow he was knocking his way past Sam and, after collapsing on his knees in front of the wheelchair, all but scooped the man seated in it forward with his arms and into a large bear hug, with Dean trying to control the whimper that threatened to burst through his lips from the pain caused by the action. “I should have thought before I spoke! I ain’t got a problem with you liking _men_ , boy: I ain’t your _daddy!_   And you two together…?

Well, you’re _good_ for each other: _I_ can see that.

And don’t you _ever_ think you’re not wanted here… _neither_ of you jackasses! Because you are! You both _are!_

Now, boy: put those meds away and git that bag back in your room.” He was still holding Dean tightly even while he was talking now to Sam. “Let’s get some food inside this idgit and get him resting. That bacon’s probably burnt… but… come and sit at the table here, both of you… I’ve got some more…

I’m sorry, boy.”

Sam folded his arms ominously but glanced at his master. Bobby realised with a shock that he was waiting for Dean’s response… and his whole stance was giving away his determination that…if the older man didn’t _want_ to stay, then there would be no way in _hell_ that the slave would be letting Bobby make him.

But Dean, although still ashen-faced and tear-streaked, eventually nodded.

Bobby hid his sigh of relief even as he moved to check the pan. Dean wiped his face on his sleeve and allowed Sam to manoeuvre him to the table before going to return the bag to the bedroom… but the old man couldn’t help but notice that the young man hadn’t bothered to put the medication back in the cupboard.

He decided it would be more sensible _not_ to comment about it though. “Just caught it in time, though it’s a little crispy. I’ll get started on the pancakes. Or would you prefer eggs, Dean?”

“I’m good, Bobby.”

“Okay then. But you just help yourself… you know that, don’t’cha? _Both_ of you…” As Sam returned once more and sat immediately next to his master. “This is your home as well…

Always will be…”

The old man’s words tailed off as he busied himself with breakfast, desperate to do something that might help put the previous few minutes right… but he could see Dean’s whole body still shaking slightly and he was _so_ pale…

… _and_ he could see the love and concern in Sam’s eyes as he looked at the other man, one large hand already reaching to cover Dean’s and hold it tightly.

Shit. Why did he have to go and open his big mouth?

Bobby joined them as they ate, determined to talk about anything and everything just to try and keep Dean’s attention in the here and now: “So… New togs, eh, Sam?”

“Yes sir.”

Bobby tried again: “You gonna tell me all about your adventures yesterday…?”

Sam was still seething internally at him, but Dean managed to catch his eye and reluctantly he obeyed…. feeling better immediately as his master managed a watery smile and moved his hand to rest on the younger man’s thigh.

Sam had it contained beneath his own again within the next instant and was interlacing their fingers together: as far as he was concerned, he was never going to let go of Dean ever again….

And that thought made him happier than he had ever thought possible.

Even as he finally relaxed enough to begin telling Bobby all about the previous day’s events, _he_ was slightly incredulous… had all that _really_ only happened yesterday?

But it had.

It really had.

Sam couldn’t help but smile as he remembered…

He had lain on the bed while his master had slept, holding him safe and secure in his arms, slightly incredulous and disbelieving. Dean _loved_ him.

Dean loved _him_.

It seemed unbelievable but it was true.

Time had seemed to slow down while they lay there, and nothing else had mattered. Not food, although Sam was starting to feel really ravenous: he hadn’t even eaten breakfast that morning before they had left in such an emergency and by now it was getting on for early evening… not to mention the fact that he was really getting rather desperate to use the bathroom. But he held on anyway, reluctant to release the older man from his arms in case he disturbed him from what was obviously much-needed rest…

… and in case, just by moving, he woke _himself_ from what he half-feared might yet turn out to have just been an incredible dream!

It was four hours or so after closing them that Dean finally opened his eyes once more, trying immediately to shift his prone position a little from discomfort, and a little from the surprise of realising that he was not only completely naked but was being held by somebody else who was _also_ completely naked… and then memory swept through him and he was trying to shift his position simply so that he could turn his head enough to meet Sam’s eyes: green meeting hazel with shy smiles.

“Morning. _Is_ it morning?”

“About seven in the evening still.” Sam hesitated momentarily but then risked kissing him. And then he was kIssing Dean again as the first one was responded to without hesitation. “How’s your back?”

“Sore.” The older man’s tone gave away his discomfort, but... “Really sore, but _worth_ it.” … The smile was genuine.

Their mouths met again, as did quite a lot of their skin as they both began to press closer into each other. Sam felt himself get aroused again and began to move his position to be able to reach as much as possible of Dean with his hands… but then the other was pushing him away with an apology: “Can’t, Sam. Sorry, I…”

The younger man was out of the bed with a speed that a tactical missile would have been envious of: “What do you need? What can I do?”

“Heat. Ice. Pain killers. No… _them_ first.”

“On it!”

This time, Sam knew exactly what to do. Despite Dean’s objections, after fetching him the last of the paracetamol capsules to take, he had pulled his still damp, filthy t-shirt and bloodied denims back on, and ran bare-foot to get some more ice before helping the older man into the shower once more. 

They stood together in a passionate embrace as the slave directed the hot spray against his master’s spine, the taste of Dean even hotter in his mouth and his now fully hard cock making its presence known, crushed as it was tightly between their bodies. The older man blindly reached down with his right hand, trusting Sam to support him on the slippery floor of the shower cubicle, and wrapped his palm around it, beginning an immediate rhythmical stroke and slight twist at the top that caused the young man to moan loudly and his knees to feel that they would buckle...

It only took a few minutes and he was exploding over both their chests… but even as the slave was trying to recover his breath and convince his long legs to stop feeling so wobbly, anxious that he might slip and cause them both to fall, or even worse, _drop_ the older man… Dean was beginning to squirm in his arms to try and get away from the heat of the water: “Can you fetch me the ice, please, Sammy?”

Then he was trying not to squeal in an unmanly way as the younger man speedily rinsed both of them clean and shut the water off before snatching up a couple of towels and simply picking him up.  Dean was already complaining even as he was carried through into the other room: “I could’ve walked!”

“It works better the quicker it’s applied. I was researching it on your cell while you were asleep. Just hold still, master.” And he was settling himself on the bed, still with Dean in his arms so that the older man was now all but sitting across his lap, and deftly wrapping up the ice in his t-shirt once again to apply it.

His master sighed a little as he took note of the concentration in the young man’s face as he worked: “I seriously don’t know what I’d do without you, Sam.”

The slave didn’t look around from where he was now pressing the intensely cold pack to the patch of reddened skin on Dean’s back, but the depth of the dimples that appeared in his cheeks and the wide smile on his face told the older man he had been heard. “You look after me like nobody else has ever done. And you…

… you make me feel...”

Now Sam _did_ look up, tightening his hold to pull Dean closer while at the same time ensuring that the freezing ice didn’t slip from where it was needed. “What, master? _What_ do I make you feel…?”

But Dean’s face was as red as his back now. “Nuttin’,” he eventually mumbled. “We better get you some clean clothes and then find sommat to eat. Write me down the sizes of those before you get dressed again. There was a sign to a Walmart as we came in to town: we should be able to pick up some stuff there.”

Sam chewed on his lip again, idly wondering what his master had been about to say, but then he was considering what he _had_ just said… “How are we going to go in to a store the way _we_ look, Dean? Your clothes are dirty enough: mine are…”

“Absolutely disgusting.” Dean finished for him. “And, not being personal, Sammy, but they smell as well. That’s why I’m gonna need your sizes, ‘cos _I’m_ gonna go and get you some more…”

“But… you’ll need me with you, master…”

”I’ll need you to help me in and out of the car, definitely. But as for going in the store…? Well, it might be easier if you stay outside, Sam…”

“But…”

Dean twisted slightly in his lap, his back finally starting to move a little easier as it loosened from the effects of both the heat, cold _and_ the pain killers getting to work, and wriggled around until he could look directly into Sam’s eyes even as a blush coloured his cheeks yet _again_ from the consciousness of them both still being nearly completely naked.

With his more confident movement, it made the younger man feel safe enough to remove the once again extremely damp t-shirt from where he had been pressing it against the other man’s spine and put it to one side, before adjusting the position of his arms so he could hold his master tightly again, trying to pull him even more into the protection of his own chest, and _really_ enjoying the feel of his master’s firm thighs and bare ass pressing across the top of his own legs.

Enjoying it so _much_ that he almost missed Dean’s next words:

“Do you _want_ to come in with me, Sam? Because I know how terrified you are of crowds. With good reason, I know. And… well… from the state of your clothes right now, we’ll attract more attention with the both of us, than I will on my own… It will be easier if I just go in… I’ll be fine, honestly.”

“I guess…” But Sam still wasn’t happy about it.

In the end though, after a _far_ too short make-out session in the younger man’s opinion, they had both dressed and driven back to the store, where he had helped Dean to get into the wheelchair and then just sat and watched miserably from the interior of the locked Impala as his master carefully made his own way in.

Sam felt like a failure. Dean was right, he _was_ terrified of crowds. They reminded him of the slave auctions: they reminded him of evenings when he had been forced to be the main entertainment…

But he should be inside the _store_ with him! What if Dean couldn’t reach something? What if he got the wheelchair stuck somehow, or tipped it over again? What if he needed Sam, and Sam wasn’t there…?

Or even worse…

What if his master _didn’t_ actually need him…?

It had seemed like a lifetime had passed to the young man before the chromed wheels of the chair had reappeared back through the glass doors and Dean was returning to the Impala… propelling himself along with two bulging bags of shopping on his lap, and being accompanied by a couple of very attentive, short-skirted, long-haired pretty girls, both of whom seemed to be quite enamoured by the extremely good-looking invalid.

Sam could hear the laughter of all three as they approached… but then, to his intense relief, Dean was trying to excuse himself as he reached the car, smiling his ‘thanks for their assistance, but he really had to go now, thank you’.

The younger man couldn’t help but make sure the farewell was as brief as possible, by the simple expedient of all but flinging himself out of the passenger side of the vehicle and doing a good impression of a growl. The girls both shrieked and looked more than a little put out, especially at the decidedly pungent odour now emitting from his blood-encrusted clothes, but then Dean was smiling and speaking soothing words… and somehow, to Sam’s intense _chagrin_ … receiving a kiss from each of the females before they moved to their own vehicle… as well as their cell phone numbers!

Even as he was putting the bags into the rear of the Impala, Sam was aware of the older man’s eyebrow-raised scrutiny on him. With a sigh, he straightened up and turned to face him: “I’m sorry, master. I didn’t mean to show you up just then.”

But then one strong arm was reaching up to grab at a handful of filthy shirt, and he was being pulled down to Dean’s eye level, staring straight into his face… and his master was smirking: “We still don’t know each other very well, Sammy… But… you better understand this about me…

In the outside world… how I’ve lived… I hustle; I flannel; I flirt; I outright lie. Anything to get what I need. That’s how we survived, me and my dad: that’s what I am. That’s what I’ve _always_ been.

But one thing I’m _not…”_ and his lips were pressed against Sam’s suddenly, and the slave was squeaking slightly with pleasure and opening his mouth in response… “is a _cheat!_ Not on somebody I really care about.” Dean paused a little… “Not that I’ve ever _had_ anybody else that I’ve really cared about… But what I’m trying to say is…

You can trust me never to betray you in _that_ way, Sam. You’ve got me for as long as you want me, and you don’t _ever_ need to worry about that.”

The younger man returned the kiss with unreserved passion, not even trying to respond until a need to breathe forced him to pull away momentarily: “It’s not _you_ I’m worried about, master. It’s everyone _else!_ ”

Dean laughed despite himself at the indignation in Sam’s voice and released his grasp on his shirt. “Let’s get back to the room and get you changed. Then we can go and find a diner or something. First thing first though.”

And he was reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a packet of pain killers. “Strongest ones I could get over the counter. Grab me out one of the bottles of water, will you, Sammy?”

The younger man immediately all but dived into the rear of the Impala, delving into the bags that Dean had brought from the store, his disembodied voice echoing out as he did: “When you say, we should get _changed_ , master…”

Then he was reappearing with the pack of bottles in his hand, already pushing his finger to make a hole through the stretched tight plastic that connected them and ripping it apart enough to retrieve a single container, absently opening it in readiness for the older man as he handed it over, “… Is that your way of getting me naked again?”

It was his turn to smirk as Dean was distracted from his annoyance that the bottle had been unscrewed enough to stare up at him open-mouthed momentarily… then the green eyes suddenly twinkled with so much obscene _filth_ in them that the young man felt himself blush and get fully aroused again all at the same time… “Back in the car, Sam.”

The slave had never hurried so fast to obey.

They never did go back out for a hot meal that night. Dean had also bought some groceries while in the Walmart: “I thought I better get some green stuff for you, Sam: you’ve hardly eaten today and I know how you like your rabbit food,” as well as a few snacks for them both…

But Sam could see how exhausted the older man was. All the adrenalin of the day, plus somehow forcing his legs to work enough to drive the car for the two or so hours non-stop plus the couple of extra journeys… as well as walking on his own… even for just those few steps…

… and then falling so hard and so violently straight to the ground…

… and then having sex, _however_ amazing it had been…

It had all taken its toll. Even _with_ that sleep earlier, Dean was just _exhausted_.

 _And_ in pain.

He would have tried, Sam _knew_ he would.

He would have _tried_ to cover his exhaustion and pain, and done his best to pleasure Sam in probably _any_ way the younger man might have dared to ask him to…

And Sam had fantasised _lots_ of ways that he would have loved to ask his master if… perhaps… he would…

But Sam didn’t.

Instead, once they were back in the room he had simply tried to encourage Dean to share a little of the pre-prepared salad and cold chicken, slightly worried as to how little the older man had actually managed to ingest, then handed him two more tablets and another bottle of water before helping him shed his clothes, and settling him on the more intact bed.

“It’s still early, Sammy,” Dean murmured, even as Sam stripped himself out of his brand new garments and also slid beneath the covers. “I’m sorry I’m being so useless: I don’t know what I was thinking this morning…

I bought you a couple of books today: one’s on famous artists; the other’s about serial killers. Don’t know why but I thought it might interest you… They’re in the bag with the clothes… Or you can watch TV, or…”

His words were cut off as the younger man’s mouth moved to cover his, Sam leaning fully over the tired body as he did, careful to support his own weight via his arms and strong shoulders, aware that any extra pressure on Dean’s painful back would probably feel to the older man like it was being amplified a thousand-fold.

Then he was breaking the kiss to instead begin to taste… and nuzzle… and lick… and suck… and nibble… everywhere he could reach while slowly working his way down the amazing body beneath him. “Do you really think I’d want to sit and look at pictures of works of art when I’ve got a real one to study right here?”

Dean grunted… well, it was half a grunt, half a long moan as Sam proved to them both that his skin was extremely sensitive at the exact point that his neck met his left ear… “I ain’t _never_ been no oil-painting, Sam. Especially not now…. not after the…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. The slave knew he was referring to the heavy scarring on the left side of his upper chest and arm… but Sam already had a plan for that…

More than a plan, he reflected: he had had the desire to do this since just about the very first _moment_ he had seen Dean topless… and now…?

He was going to map every inch of the peaks and gullies of the now fading to brown-and-pink burnt flesh. He wanted to know every single angle of every single scar… and every other one of the numerous scars that littered his master’s ripped torso… with his fingers… and his mouth… and his tongue.

So Sam did.

Dean tensed as the younger man bent over him and began to leisurely lick along the line where smooth flesh was smothered by puckered, seared skin. “Sammy!” he gasped: “You don’t have to…!”

“I know, master…” And his long body was lowering ever so slightly more so that he could run his lips along the first ridge of scarred tissue: “But I’ve always wanted to…

And I’m _gonna!”_

“I… You… Really…? I…” But Dean’s breathlessly panted syllables faded as the _only_ thing he could concentrate on, was how incredible Sam was making him feel… and how incredible his whole life had become since Bobby had brought the amazing young man home… and seriously, how could just the touch of his mouth be _doing_ that?!

“This okay, master? Can you feel that?”

“Yeah… yeah, Sammy…” The older man felt almost drunk with pleasure. “Not on the burnt bits, but… _beneath_. It’s coming back… I never thought it would… oh my _God_ …” His eyes closed as Sam’s teeth closed gently around his left nipple: the warmth of the young man’s breath still stimulating the saliva moistened area that had just been explored…

And Sam wasn’t done yet.

By the time he _had_ finished… sucking the last working particle of Dean’s brain out through his cock as he came into Sam’s mouth… his master had never felt so relaxed and… so completely boneless, no pun intended… in his entire life. It was all he could do to keep himself awake even as the smirking slave settled beside him: pulling Dean once again into the embrace of his arms, and the bedcovers over them both…

“That was amazing, Sam… thank you… My turn to do _you_ tomorrow…”

“Oh, _master_ …” That sounded _very_ good to the young man: “ _Would_ you…?”

But the older man was already sound asleep.

Sam smiled at the memory even as he was summarising the day to Bobby, obviously with certain of the more… intimate…. details left out, pleased that at least Dean had actually got a few hours of decent rest the night before.

 Although he _had_ been awake early again that morning as was his habit: the young man himself had stirred to find the small bed empty next to him, and his master quietly sitting in his wheelchair by the window, somehow already fully dressed, with the empty packet of tablets and a half bottle of water in his hand, staring out as dawn transformed into full light.

The younger man smiled and crept naked across the room to join him. But it was him who got the surprise, as, although Dean hadn’t turned his head at all, he was suddenly on the move, reaching to pull the slave physically down towards him until the other man had all but fallen over the side of the chair and into his lap, and was tilting his own head up… unsuccessfully attempting to disguise a wince… in readiness for a morning kiss.

“Is your back still bad, Dean?”

“Bad enough, Sammy. But thanks for last night: that was…” Sam’s dimples deepened as his master went red again. “… that was fucking _amazing_ … it really…” He couldn’t find the words, but it didn’t matter… the much deeper, and incredibly passionate kiss that he gave Sam instead left the younger man with _no_ doubt at all how intense his feelings were…

… and he was now so hard himself in response, that he _really_ hoped his master would be interested in _both_ of them going back to bed.

But then he was seeing the pain in the green eyes and nothing else mattered: “Let me get dressed and we’ll get going…”

“We’ll get breakfast first… if you’re hungry, Sammy…?”

“I can wait, master. Let’s just get you home…”

“So…” Bobby had been listening intently to Sam’s narrative of his first adventure with his master: “How was it _you_ ended up driving back?”

It was Dean who answered: “Every move on the pedals was killing me, Bobby. And we were so early the road was quiet, so…”

The old man nodded: “Good idea. How is it now, boy?”

“Easing a bit, Bobby.”

The other regarded him intently. Dean still looked pale, but then that could have been as much from the panic attack as from the pain in his back… and he could have wished that he had managed to eat more. He had noticed how closely Sam was watching his master as well, but really all Dean had managed was a large mug of coffee and a little of the bacon… No pancakes at _all_ , which was _not_ a good sign.

“Well, the doc should be here soon… yes, he _will_ ,” as Dean groaned, “so you rest up. He said he just had to go back to the surgery first, but as you’ve been doing so much better lately and have been actually doing the exercises as you were _told_ to, he’s hoping a steroid injection should do the job this time: less unpleasant side effects than the cortisone...

Anyway,” he cleared his throat, “I’m still mad at’cha for doing that yesterday, but… I’m damn proud of ya as _well_ , boy.” He got up to clear the table and was relieved when Sam finally willingly left his master’s side to help. “And I _never_ meant to upset you like I did. I’m certainly not _ashamed_ of you, Dean…

I’m so sorry.”

“S’good, Bobby.” It was a grunt. “I’ll be in the bedroom when he gets here.” And Dean was wheeling himself away from the table, already unable to hide how tired he was.

The other two men waited in silence until he had disappeared from their view.

“How’s he doing, _really?”_

Sam turned from stacking the plates and glanced at him… but then he was sighing: “He tried to keep his head turned away from me this morning in the car but I could see the tears in his eyes. He really overdid it yesterday, Bobby. That _thing_. And then when he fell again…

Anyway, that’s when he suddenly pulled over and suggested I have a go at learning to drive… starting from right then!”

But then Sam’s own eyes were shining with pride: “He _walked_ , Bobby. He walked on his own! I _knew_ he could!

If only he hadn’t _fallen_ …” he finished sadly.

The old man snorted, and reached up to pat him on the shoulder, overwhelmingly grateful when the young man suddenly smiled back at him for the first time since their return: “He knows he can _do_ it now. Believe me, Sam: just as soon as that pain’s under control again… Dean’ll be up and trying to _walk_. So I would suggest you get some rest while you can…

‘Cos you think he’s been hard work so far…?

Well, from _now_ on, boy… he’s gonna be a fricking _nightmare!_ ”


	13. The Telling of a Story

“Master?”

“Mmm?”

“You asleep?”

“Yep. _Sound_.”

“Sorry.”

There was a long silence in the almost pitch darkness of the room.

Broken finally by a long, heavy sigh: “What is it, Sam?”

Another silence……

“Sa-am?”

“I’m sorry. Master. I didn’t mean to wake you…” The young man’s voice gave away his slight anxiety: he _seriously_ hadn’t meant to disturb the other man…

Dean sighed and carefully wriggled round on the bed, insanely grateful for the doctor and his steroid injection… not that he would _ever_ admit it out loud. But the medic had been genuinely impressed by his incredible progress: all the exercises that Sam had been consistently nagging at… erm… _encouraging_ him to do every day were slowly paying off, and he had felt the only thing needed was  something to help ease the inflammation caused by the abrupt, and painful, fall…

But it had been such a relief when the shot had finally started working late into the previous evening… and as the tender swelling had slowly begun to subside and his back had begun to almost feel normal… or at least as normal as Dean had become used to over the last few months… so he had felt the constrained tension that he had tried so hard to pretend to Sam and Bobby wasn’t there, ease and flow away like water rippling away in the ebb of a tide…

Leaving behind it initially just the inclination to have some uninterrupted, pain-free sleep.

But… now that he was _awake_ …? Especially as he also happened to be lying on a bed, albeit small, and wrapped securely in the strong arms of the young man who had only two days professed his intention to make love to him the first chance he got…? Well…

Dean couldn’t help but wonder what _else_ his back might now be capable of taking…

By now he had turned fully in Sam’s embrace and was facing him, their bodies touching all the way down… “Don’t you worry about disturbing me, Sammy: we both know that I’ve slept better since you’ve been with me than I have on my own for _years_. Now… what is it?”

He fell silent to await the answer, resting his head half against the pillow and half on the younger man’s bicep as Sam’s arms were still wrapped around him, unconsciously nuzzling even closer until his short hair was tickling against the slave’s jaw and his teeth were within nibbling distance of the collar…

Sam shivered as he felt Dean’s tongue start to kitten-lick around the edge of the leather and was _instantly_ hard in response… but…

He had been wanting to ask for the last couple of days: it had only been his tremendous concern over the older man’s suffering that had stopped him…  “Master…?

What _was_ that thing?”

The warm moistness of Dean’s tongue stopped as it was removed from his skin… only to be immediately replaced by a even warmer waft of air as the older man sighed deeply: “You want to talk about that _now?_ ”

“I was… just wondering, mas… Dean. Well…” he corrected himself: “I’ve been wondering _since_ … What _was_ it? And you were talking about demons… And _witches_. I…”

Sam stopped speaking suddenly. In the car, his master had told him they were real.  Dean had told him a _lot_ of things were real…

But… the younger man hadn’t fully _believed_ him…

Not until…

… he had seen that _thing_.

“I’m sorry, master.” He felt ashamed: he should never have doubted Dean. He already trusted the older man completely… how could he have betrayed him by not having faith as well…?

“Because if there’s one thing you’re _not_ , Sammy, is a fucking imbecile!” Dean’s calm voice cut through his thoughts… or rather… as he was responding to what the younger man had obviously just spoken out _loud_ … his own sudden embarrassed self mortification… “You would have _had_ to have been not to have any doubts… so believe me, I’m still amazed you stayed in the car at _all_ …”

They fell silent, each man lost in their own thoughts… Sam absently tightened his arms, pulling his master even closer to him, one large hand beginning to gently stroke at the short, soft hair… and Dean let him, relaxing into the hold, aware of the larger solidness of the body against his own and strangely…. feeling somehow assured by the young man’s presence…

 _So_ secure in fact, that he couldn’t help but wonder…  Exactly how many nights _had_ there been, that, somehow, after he had fallen asleep, they had ended up lying together like this, in this exact position, until somehow… it had become… _accustomed?_ But… what the hell… that didn’t matter.

Because right now what Dean _really_ wanted to do… was convince Sam that he was not only ready, but definitely willing and hopefully _able_ for the young man to follow up on his much anticipated promise...

But…

… the question he had been expecting for the last couple of days had just been asked.

And it deserved a proper answer.

With a sigh, Dean found the resolve to push himself away from Sam’s body, almost caving in and clutching the other to him with a loud moan of lust as the younger man instinctively followed him across the small bed to chase him back into his embrace… ”Get the coffee going, Sammy. This ain’t no place to be having this particular conversation…”

“Master…?  It’s three in the _morning…?”_

Even in the almost pitch black dark of the night, the slave could see the green of the older man’s eyes as Dean stared at him… and he could hardly _miss_ the exasperation in his sigh…

“Sammy…? Who woke _who_ up…?”

“I know I did. Master… I’ve just been wondering about it… Can it all really be… _real?”_

“Sam.” The slave fell silent at the composed calm in the gravelly deep voice: “Go and get some coffee on. I’ll be there in a minute.”

And Dean was getting out of the bed, slowly and carefully… and desperately grateful that his back might have been cracking a little and was slightly stiff and _definitely_ tender, but for the majority… actually pain free. The relief that flooded throughout his whole body was almost a physical thing, and Dean felt ridiculous as he was forced to blink back a tear or two even as he was carefully reaching in the dark for the wheelchair. “You put the brake on?”

“Of course.” And Sam was there, already around to his master’s side and reaching to help support him.

“I don’t actually remember getting _into_ the bed… ” the older man commented thoughtfully even as he lowered himself into the unmoving seat, while taking in as well that somehow he was now dressed in t-shirt and sweatpants. “ _Or_ changing some of my clothes…”

“You fell asleep beside me on the couch.” Sam confirmed with a wide smile, the shine of his perfect teeth visible in the gloom. “One minute you were shifting around, trying to find some way to get comfortable… then the next you just sighed with relief, said ‘finally, it’s _finally_ working’ and then you went out like a light. I carried you through: Bobby brought your chair. I thought I better leave you with some decency, what with him there as well…”

“Good call.” Dean agreed as he finished pulling his denims and thick overshirt back on and began to propel himself towards the closed door, seemingly unhampered by the night. “Did he… did he make any comment about you staying _with_ me? He didn’t… I mean…?”

“He suggests that we might be more comfortable back in my original room upstairs, as long as you can manage to get up them every night. Says the bed there is a good’un: it will definitely take more wear than this hospital bed… and, if us two morons are going to get noisy, then at least it’s at the other end of the house so he won’t be forced to have to hear us…”

“Fuck…” The older man’s cheeks were burning red even as he negotiated himself out of the room and towards the downstairs rest room. “Glad I missed out on _that_ particular conversation…”

“Yeah.” The shortness of Sam’s tone gave away how… ecstatic… _he_ had been about it as well. Trying to suppress a shiver at the memory, he hurried to the kitchen to get a pot of coffee going, switching the main light on as he entered, almost blinding himself momentarily and banging his elbow hard against the door frame with a muttered yelp and a curse …

They sat together at the kitchen table in silence for a while, enjoying each other’s company as well as the hot beverage.

“So.” Dean finally began. “You ever been told fairy stories, Sammy?”

“A few. By the older slaves where I grew up. They were like… well… _mothers_ to us younger ones. They used to sit and tell us stories just before we went to bed… About princesses being abducted by wicked witches, who forced them to live lowly lives like ours before being rescued by handsome princes and happy ever afters…”

“Okay, bad example. Horror stories, then?”

“You mean, like things that lived in the walls or beneath the floors, and would tear wayward slaves from limb to limb if they dared to try and get out of the bed, no matter _who_ was getting into it with them…? Some of my previous masters used to find it _very_ funny to tell me about those…”

“Yeah, more like that…” Dean looked down at his knees while he took a suddenly much-needed deep breath… “Well, throw away everything you’ve ever been told about _everything_. Because it’s all real!”

Despite himself Sam laughed. And then remembered the Treebeard look-alike advancing on him with such hatred in _all_ its… branches… and stopped abruptly: “ _All_ of it?”

“All of it. And a lot of myths, and folklore and… Well, yeah… all of it.”

“Things in the walls?”

Dean sighed and nodded.

“Wicked witches?”

There was a snort: “Yeah. _Believe_ me.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up as his eyes went wide. “Fairies?”

He was stunned as Dean couldn’t damp down his instinctive shudder: the older man’s complexion suddenly seeming to be almost grey beneath the bright light of the kitchen. “ _Really? Fairies?_ ”

Another shudder: “Really.”

There was a long pause. Dean sipped at his coffee and wished it was something stronger… _much_ stronger. Vaguely he wondered if he could slip something into his mug without Sam noticing and having a meltdown about him mixing alcohol with his meds… but… first he’d have to find where that devious old git had hidden his stash from him _this_ time…

“What else?”

Dean startled as Sam abruptly broke the silence. “What?”

“What else? You mentioned… demons?”

“Yep.”

“ _Demons?_ As in…?”

“As in black-eyed bastards from Hell with really nasty powers and even nastier attitudes? Yes.”

“ _Demons??!”_

Dean sighed, and gingerly leant forward to put his elbows on the table: catching and holding Sam’s disbelieving gaze with his own steady one… “Demons. And werewolves. And vampires. And ghosts. And wendigoes, and sirens, and wraith, and… you name it…”

There was another long silence. Dean wheeled himself across to the stove to get some more coffee while he waited for the next round of questions…

“So… How do _you_ know about them, master? Sandy… it _was_ Sandy, wasn’t it? The blacksmith? Said something about a poltergeist…? You… saved her _daughter…?”_

The silence in the room became deafening.

“Master?”

He stared across at the older man, who was now sitting with his head down, seemingly intent on just staring at the mug cradled between his two hands.

Eventually Dean sighed: “Yeah… yeah, Sam. That’s what I… did. That was my life. I was a… Hunter.”

“Hunter?”

“A Hunter. Of Supernatural beings. Saving people: Hunting things …”

The deep voice become so quiet that the younger man could barely hear it: “That’s the only thing I was ever any good at. The _only_ thing…”

His voice cracked. The tone was barely above a whisper…

“Nothing else. I was never _any_ good for anything else…”

Sam’s heart felt as if it had broken into two. He was immediately on his feet and across the room, moving to take his master into his arms and hold him tightly… but then Dean’s stomach was suddenly rumbling loudly and distracting them both. _Really_ loudly. “Sorry.”

“You need food.” The slave told him. “If for nothing else, to take some more of your meds with…”

“When did I last eat? Since we came home, it's been a bit of a blur…”

“Quite simply, you didn’t.” Sam was already beginning to look in the cupboards and see what there was that he could cook fairly quickly. “Not since your back got bad again: Bobby’s been as worried as I have. They’re supposed to be taken just after eating, so what would you like, master…?”

“What have we got?”

“What’cha _want_ , ya _moron?_ ”

And Bobby was also stumbling sleepily into the kitchen, yawning and looking like he had dressed in a hurry, although he still had managed to put his cap on, albeit askew... “Although why you’ve got to wait until _stupid_ o’clock to decide that you can eat sommat…!”

“Sorry, Bobby.” “ _I’m_ getting him something, Bobby: you go back to bed.”

But the old man shook his head good-naturedly at them both: “I’d be happier seeing you get some food inside ya, ya stupid idgit.” His smile gave away his fondness. “Hardly ate enough to keep a mouse alive yesterday. Nor did Sam, ‘cos he’s worried about _you_.

 _So_ … there’s some steaks in the refrigerator… or some cold chicken that Jodie brought around last night. And we’ve fries that won’t take long to do, or there’s bacon, or there’s some bagels…”

“Bagels will do. I can toast them myself, Bobby: don’t _you_ worry. The sheriff came round?”

“She wanted to check you were okay after your fall… you know how news travels round here… but you were already doing your sleeping beauty impression.” The slave stared as Bobby passed where he was still standing by the cupboards: he could have sworn that the old man had just _winked_ at him. “She helped Sam get you settled… says you look like an angel when you’re asleep…”

“She saw me in bed?” Dean was staring up at his surrogate uncle aghast. “I thought Sam said _you_ helped him…?”

“Nah, it was Jodie.” By this time, Bobby had his head buried from view behind the large refrigerator door. “She was worried about whether you’d opened any wounds up again… She helped Sam undress you: had you almost completely _stripped_ before he managed to persuade her he was fine doing it. She came back in here chuckling about you even having freckles on your _ass_ …”

“She _what…?”_ And Dean was looking over to where Bobby was with wide eyes full of horror: he would never be able to show his face outside the house again… Or any other part of him… “She… _saw…?”_

In desperation, he glanced up at Sam… who _almost_ managed to hide his smirk in time.

Almost.

“Oh for…” Dean felt irritation flare through him, although he wasn’t sure whether he was more angry or… no… actually, he was _definitely_ more relieved. He took a sip from his mug of coffee as he tried to try and convince his pounding heart to calm down: “I think I preferred it when you two were fighting. And I don’t have freckles… _ther_ e, anyway...”

Bobby’s guffaws echoed around the room even as Sam, who was also laughing, bent down to whisper in his master’s ear… “Yes, you do, master. They’re beautiful. And I promise you… I’m going to count each and every one of them with a kiss later…”

“For…” Dean’s blush now was so deep that even the tops of his ears had flared vivid red. “For God’s sake, stop _talking_ …”

The old man was still sniggering as he appeared from behind the door with a couple of packets in his hand: “You boys fancy the steaks? They won’t take long.”

“You go’on back to bed, Bobby. I’ll do it.”

“Nah, it’ll be good to see you both eat.” And the old man was also helping himself to coffee.  “Be honest, boys…steak and fries sound good?”

He couldn’t help but laugh loudly again as the, still very red faced man in the wheelchair couldn’t quite bring himself to meet his eye, but eventually conceded with a nod: “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds really great, Bobby. Sorry to be putting you to so much trouble again…”

“No trouble at all, boy: you know that. You never have been.” He was already turning the burners on as he spoke, waving Sam out of the way much to the younger man’s frustration: he felt that he should be doing something… well _every_ thing… It wasn’t _fair_ that Bobby be doing it all… After all the years of being _forced_ to work at all hours, he now desperately _wanted_ to be doing it…

But eventually he had to settle for setting the small table before seating himself once more beside his master, instinctively reaching to cover the damaged hand with his own: absently smoothing his thumb over the fire-damaged flesh where there should have been a little finger...

“Now.” Bobby turned the steaks over on the griddle and glanced round at his two younger charges: “It sounded like quite a conversation was going on as I came downstairs…”

“Sam’s got some questions, Bobby….”

The old man nodded: “I thought he might.”

He had in fact heard most of it: unable to settle to sound sleep that night, he had been instantly disturbed by Sam’s half-blind floundering about in the kitchen and had immediately hurried downstairs. Upon the realisation that the boys were just up so god-damned early simply to get coffee and that it _wasn’t_ in fact an emergency, he had paused by the door and unashamedly eavesdropped…

Until he had heard Dean’s angst-filled words about his Hunting days that is. That was when he had decided to join them, determined to pull the boy free of those depressive thoughts before they could filter down through to the very marrow of his bones again…

“Hey Dean: remember when you, your dad, me and Rufus took on that Rougarou that time? And Rufus fell into the swamp after and made such a commotion that he attracted possibly every damned ‘gator within a ten mile radius…?”

Despite himself, the wheelchair bound man chuckled: “I remember. He fussed on about losing his lighter and was splashing about in the dark looking for it… we were yelling at him to get out onto the bank again as the flashlights were picking up all these _eyes_ … I thought it was something important to him, but it turned out he…”

“…was just such a miserable skinflint that he didn’t want to have to buy a replacement…” Bobby was also laughing. “Typical Rufus. He’d never _buy_ the whisky, but he was the one who always managed to have the lion’s share of the bottle!”

Sam was grinning broadly as well by this time: “Who’s Rufus?”

“Another Hunter. A friend.” Dean’s smile vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. “He’s dead.”

“The nature of the beast.” Bobby commented as he checked to see if the fries were done. “Hunting’s a dangerous profession, Sam.” This was said with a small frown to the younger man that was immediately, and anxiously, picked up on. “That’s why I was so angry with that idgit for dragging you off with him. I can’t believe _I’ve_ managed to get old instead.

And I’m damn sure relieved that _he’s_ been laid up a little…” this was with a nod in Dean’s direction. “Not that I wanted him to have an accident like _that_ of course…” He began to pile the steaming hot fries out on three plates: “But perhaps it’ll give him a chance to pursue other options in life rather than just blindly following his daddy’s thirst for revenge…”

“Revenge?” “ _What_ other options, Bobby? I’m stuck in this fucking chair.”

“From what _I_ heard, boy: you _ain’t_ stuck.” And the old man was tossing a still slightly pink in the middle steak on top of each mound of fries and bringing them all over to the table, staring out Dean’s frown without a blink: “Not any more. And you can repair any damn car better than I can and that’s saying sommat, and everyone around here knows it. And most _other_ mechanical things.

 _And_ you can bake: I’ve been waiting for the offer of one of your cakes ever since you got here! Or you could go back to your schooling: finally get your GED without your daddy hauling you out of yet another school telling ya you don’t need to waste your time on that crap.

And speaking of that: I’ve watched you straight-off translating Latin from my old books like it was your god-damn first language, you don’t even realise you’re _doing_ it! John pushed you so god-damned hard... I’d bet you could find something doing _that_. You’re smart, boy. _Really_ you are.

You’ve got _options_ , Dean. And with everything you’ve been through… you done your share, boy. You can enjoy being alive now. And being with _Sam_. And not feeling _guilty_ about it!”

Sermon over, Bobby speared his steak with his fork, picked the entire thing up in one go and bit a chunk out of it caveman-like, all the while defiantly glaring at Dean and _daring_ him to argue.

And in return, Dean stared back at him with slightly wide eyes… but then he was looking down at his own plate and picking at his fries with his right hand… his left one still being contained tightly by Sam’s long, delicate fingers surrounding it and the younger man had no intention of letting go… _ever_ … and nodding…

“Hey,” he finally began. “Remember that time d… dad… got cursed by that witch in Indiana and he began blowing out soap bubbles every time he tried to speak for two days…”

Bobby laughed so hard so suddenly that he almost choked on his mouthful of meat: “He went nuts. _Really!_ It was worth her escaping just to see him… Oh God….” He had to put his cutlery down to wipe his now streaming with tears eyes… “You should have seen it, Sam: it was like something from a cartoon! Every time he opened his mouth…

And _Dean!_ With that _Clurichaun!_ ”

Sam risked a glance at his master as the other man groaned: “That wasn’t my fault, Bobby. The damn thing drank me under the _table_ …”

“We were… we…” And Bobby was crying with laughter again so infectiously that the slave couldn’t help himself from joining in without understanding why… “ _He’d_ not been well so we… John and me… we went out to lay in wait for it and left him behind…

Turned out the tricky thing got the drop on _us!_ While we were freezing our asses off waiting all night in this falling down old heap of a barn, it had disguised itself as a human and followed Dean into a bar bold as brass!

 _Gawd_ , the boy had such a headache the next afternoon! We couldn’t wake him at all in the morning! And _John_ , when he realised: the bar tab they’d made between them maxed out two of his credit cards!

And the Clurichaun was long gone.”

The anecdotes went on… and the recollections…

Until the food was all eaten, and the coffee had been refreshed, and the dark of the night began to ebb away as dawn encroached, but _still_ the conversation went on. Of Shtrigas and sirens: of werewolves and wraiths. With tales of such simple heroism and blindingly foolhardy bravery that Sam felt his breath suddenly catch at the abrupt realisation that… these _weren’t_ just tales! This had been his master’s _life!_

These… _fairy_ tales… were actually Dean’s life. And Bobby’s of course.

And by sitting here telling them, or at least some of them… this was Bobby’s way of trying to explain Dean to him.

And this was _Dean’s_ way of trying to tell him just why he was such a fucking mess and Sam should just cut and run while he still could.

And the young man’s response? Upon finally being persuaded to release Dean's hand, he had instead carved up his entire plateful of food into bite-sized morsels within about thirty seconds so that he could eat with a fork in his left hand only while his right had moved to rest on his beautiful master’s denimed thigh, curling ever closer and further up with every new exciting recollection and his long strong fingers tightening each and every time into the warm flesh beneath to remind the other of his unconditional support with any sad one told.

And there were a _lot_ of sad memories: although Sam had been made aware of and understood Bobby’s intention to try and to keep the mood of the night _light_ , it hadn’t proved to be possible. One spoken memory began to lead into another after another, and even the old man’s eyes were beginning to glisten with unbidden moisture and his words were being caused to falter.

Events where it just hadn’t been possible to save everyone.

Of taking the wrong split second decision and of making mistakes.

And reminders of true friends being lost.

Sam could _feel_ the sadness hanging over Dean like a physical weight forcing down on each of his shoulders, pressing with enough vehemence to seemingly drive the wheelchair bound man bodily right through the ground itself to what lies beneath… and his master had started to become quieter and more reticent with every passing minute…

“It’s not your fault.” He felt he had to say something. Dean’s head was now bowed, and, although his hand was now just as tightly covering Sam’s as the young man’s had been previously, all but crushing the long fingers with the intensity of the grasp, the slave wasn’t fully convinced that the other man’s awareness was actually still in the room. “Things happen. They just do. I know you would have tried, master: I’m so proud of you.”

“It wasn’t enough.” The words were spoken so quietly that both Sam and Bobby, who had also finally faltered to a halt in his story-telling, struggled to hear them. “ _I_ was never enough.”

“Dean…” The old man began… but then the wheelchair bound man was shaking his head as if trying to physically shake off the melancholy, then pulling himself away from the table and from the slave’s touch.

“It’s nearly light. Think I’ll go and watch the dawn.” And he was propelling himself towards the back door suddenly without looking around.

Sam hurried to his feet: “I’ll come with you…”

“No.” Dean already was struggling with the lock on the slightly warped old wood. “I’m fine, Sammy, I just…” He paused even as he finally got the key to turn. “I won’t try and stand, I promise. I just need…”

And with that he was out of the kitchen and gone.

“Let him go, boy.” Sam was nearly also out of the door as well but he looked back at the old man’s words. Bobby was still sitting silently at the table, a track of a tear now down his cheek, but with a sigh he raised his head to look across at the young man. “There’s one more story you need to hear. It’s time you did.

And he don’t want to be here when you hear it.”

Sam considered. Part of him… _most_ of him… just wanted to follow Dean outside: find where his master had gone to this time and just hold him so _tightly_ …

But.

A little of him... a _lot_ of him… wanted to find out what Bobby was about to tell him.

So eventually he closed the door again and returned to the now uncomfortable wooden seat. It didn’t feel right, sitting there without Dean by his side. That was where his master belonged now, and it felt wrong to Sam that he was there alone…

But he waited.

Bobby sighed.

“I know you’ve probably still got a lot of questions, boy. And I know we’re just been talking… well… _I’ve_ just been talking…

But I know the one that, if it isn’t already at the top of your list, will be the moment you catch your breath enough to think about it…”

“How did all this start, Bobby? How did he get… why is this, _his_ life?” Sam couldn’t help himself from interrupting. Because some of the stories meant his master could only have been a child himself in them… facing creatures like the Leshy…

Just about his _whole_ existence must have centred around fighting… _monsters_.

And Sam had thought _he_ had had a terrible upbringing.

The old man sadly shook his head. “Should never had been.  But… there ya go.

I told you there was a fire. Dean’s mom and baby brother were killed.” The young man nodded but remained silent. “But what I didn’t say was that…

It was intentional.”

Sam waited. Then frowned as the words sunk in. And felt a little sick with horror and fury as he realised: “Someone set their house on fire intentionally? Arson?”

“Nah.” Bobby straightened in his chair and met Sam’s eyes straight on. “Some… _thing_.

I didn’t know them then, we met after, but John told me about it: that he ran into the nursery… little Sammy’s room… where Dean was screaming at…

His mom. Burning alive. On the ceiling.”

Sam blinked.

“Something had pinned her to the _ceiling_ , Sam. The room was going up in flames. And… there was a figure…”

“A figure?” The young man leant forward: he couldn’t help himself.

“Like a man… actually turned out to be a demon… with glowing yellow eyes and a cold, cold smile… smiling at Dean as he cried. Laughing at John as he stopped in sheer horror at the sight.

John grabbed Dean, told him to run. The house went up in flames. They pulled what was left of Mary… Dean’s mom… out after. There was nothing left of the baby to bury beside her…

John was distraught. Completely stunned. Couldn’t quite believe what he had seen. But he _wanted_ to know. Found out about the supernatural and the things in it. Was desperate to find the demon.

He wanted _revenge_.

And he took Dean with him.”

Bobby sat back in his chair and sighed as more tears threatened to fall. “That’s when I got to know them. My wife was killed by… well, that’s a different story but I was already Hunting when I met John Winchester. He wanted information on _everything_. Wanted to save _everybody_.

He brought Dean up as a soldier. The boy obeyed him without question: wouldn’t think of disobeying him. Probably wouldn’t have _dared_ to.

We used to clash sommat awful. The boy had lost his mom and brother: he needed stability. He needed somewhere to feel safe: after all,   _he’d_ seen it _too,_ Sam. He needed a… well, a _dad_.

But he got John Winchester.

Anyways…

I _would_ have said that John didn’t give a crap for Dean… Certainly never showed it. Boy couldn’t ever seem to do anything right, not for John. He was helping his daddy kill things when other kids were still learning to ride pedal bikes. I know for _sure_ he was the bait on a couple of occasions…

But…”

The gruff voice got even gruffer and a sleeve was suspiciously wiped across a now definitely salt-dampened face. “They finally tracked it down. Took them _years_. Dean was… what… twenty-seven…twenty-eight? His whole _life_ , looking for the damned thing…

And _it?_

It possessed John. Took over his body and used him to physically all but rip Dean to pieces. Thought it was fun. Then it released John just in time to watch as his boy finished bleeding to death…”

Now there _were_ tears slipping openly down the old man’s cheeks. “John got him to the hospital but they couldn’t do much. He called me from there: knew how much I loved the boy. Thought I’d want to be there…

And asked me to bring a few things with me…”

“Things?”

“I wondered.” Bobby nodded at the interruption, but he was so far into his memories that momentarily Sam wondered if he had actually heard him or was just whispering to himself now… “Especially when I saw the other things John had there. I wondered…

I followed him when he left Dean’s bedside. He should have been by his _bedside_ … I followed him down to a basement and watched as he…”

“What? What did he do?” Sam could barely sit still. He felt such raging _hatred_ towards both this demon _and_ this ‘John Winchester’ that he wanted to… “What did he _do_ , Bobby?”

The old man stirred enough to look him directly in the eye. “He summoned it, Sam. He summoned the bastard thing.”

“And he killed it?” Sam could have killed it _himself_ right at the moment. He could have ripped it to pieces with his bare hands…

“No, Sam.” Bobby’s voice was so calm… “He wanted to make a deal with it. His life…

… for Dean’s.”

There a silence in the kitchen. Sam tried to digest this… “But…?”

“John was giving _his_ life… to save Dean’s. He did actually love him…” Bobby shook his head. “Only time he ever showed it… never would to the boy’s face…  Doubt he ever did.

But the demon took the deal. They went to shake hands on it. The thing was going to get John’s soul for the rest of eternity… and then…”

“Then?” The young man could scarcely breathe.

“Then the room went _crazy!_ ” Bobby was staring incredulously at the table as his memories replayed in his head. Sam could only stare at him and try to imagine… “Turned out Dean was _also_ there, or his soul at least, trying to avoid the damn Reaper that was after him. _He’d_ followed his dad as well, and seen…

And he _wasn’t_ going to let John throw his life away for him!

In his anger and desperation, he got powerful. Like a _ghost_ gets powerful when it’s angry, Sam. The rest of the demons scattered in a panic as everything was thrown around the room: tables smashing against the walls, the lights all exploding…!

And we could suddenly see him. So beautiful. Cas said his soul was the most beautiful ever and he was…”

“Cas?”

He was ignored momentarily.

“Dean stopped it being done. He stopped John being taken to Hell.

But the demon… ? Well, he was sure as hell wasn’t having it: he was going to _kill_ John whether he could have his soul or not.” Bobby paused. “He was going to kill _me_ as well, Sam. That thing was so powerful. So _nasty_. And we were trapped in that basement with it…

So Dean offered himself for our lives.”

Sam exclaimed: he couldn’t help it. This couldn’t be real.

This _had_ to be just a story.

Hadn’t it?

“John tried to stop him, but Dean was adamant. As far as he was concerned he was already dead… and completely useless and worthless, and his _dad_ needed to stay alive so that he would still have a chance to avenge little Sammy and Mary in the future…”

Bobby paused: “I think that was the first time that John ever actually realised the damage he’d done to Dean over the years… that the boy really believed, and still _does_ , that he’s not _worth_ saving…” The tears began to fall down the old man’s face once more in earnest. “He tried to argue. But for the first time ever… Dean wouldn’t listen. Wouldn’t obey.

He thinks he just wasn’t _worth_ John’s sacrifice.

And… John was actually stunned by that, Sam… Because he did love him…”

“Fucking funny way of showing it…” The snarl was through Sam’s lips before he could stop it. But Bobby nodded in understanding…

“Anyway, the demon: Azazel, it called itself. It … he… was happy with the deal. Didn’t care which Winchester it got, as long as it got one. Took Dean’s soul there and then and disappeared.

By the time we’d recovered from… what had just happened and got back up to the boy’s room, it was all over. As far as the hospital was concerned, he’d had a fatal cardiac arrest and that was that.”

He couldn’t help but smile at the young man’s expression as he tried to make sense of that… “He died? Are you… telling me that Dean… was _dead_ somehow _?_

But how…? That’s not… That’s _crazy_ …!”

“John insisted on burying him. Hunter’s don’t do that, Sam, we cremate: too much danger of something else hijacking the empty body. But we buried Dean.

Then John went on a rampage. Fuck, he was out of control, Sam. Summoning every demon he could. Trying to make deals to exchange his soul for Dean’s. Nothing was any good. He just about lost every single last friend he had.

Then, in desperation, he went to an old acquaintance of us both: a psychic called Missouri Moseley. Asked her to contact… well… _anything_ that might be able to help him.

And it was there that she got information from… I never knew what it was, but whatever, it was something that knew what was _really_ going on. That the whole plan had been to get one of the two remaining Winchesters down in Hell: something about them being ‘righteous men’,” Bobby couldn’t hide his drawling sarcasm at the thought despite the seriousness of the conversation, “and if whichever of them broke under the torture down there, then that would be the kick-starter for the god-damned _Apocalyse_ …”

Despite himself Sam laughed: this was just so… ridiculous! But then he was meeting Bobby’s eyes again and sobering in a hurry at the solemnity there… “You’re… _serious?_ ”

“I’m serious, boy. You don’t know how close the world gets sometimes…

Anyways…

John’s anxiety went up a notch! He had to get a message to Dean to tell him to stand strong. We helped Missouri take herself into such a deep trance that her soul could walk loose and be protected even down there . That was really dark magic we had to use, Sam, but she managed to reach the boy for long enough to warn him, to tell him that John was coming to get him somehow: he just had to hold on…

Gawd, Sam.” The young man had to swallow hard at the look on the older man’s face: it was the memory of seeing something truly horrible. “When she returned into her body… she screamed and screamed at what she had witnessed. Said she didn’t know how the boy hadn’t just given up… what was being done to his soul…

She was never the same after.” Bobby shivered bodily. “And don’t’cha ever go asking Dean, boy. Some memories are better buried deep…

But… He managed to hold on. He was down there years, Sam. Time runs different. He was there _years. Decades_ , even. But he held on. Took their torture. Took all of it.

And we were trying _everything_ we could to get to him.

But in the end… it turned out we weren’t the only ones…”

He paused. Sam could only shake his head and plead with his eyes for him to continue: he didn’t trust his voice to be able to utter a single sound.

“Turns out the _Angels_ were looking for him as well. For the same reason: to try and stop the Apocalyse from being started. _You’ve_ seen the mark on his arm: I’ve seen you stare at it, boy. I know you want to ask…

An Angel called Castiel literally snatched him up from Hell. Fought his way into that dark place and pulled Dean back out. That mark…

Well, it’s on his soul, Sam. It was his _soul_ that was returned. That is Castiel’s handprint marking him where he held him and raised him from that infernal place…

And Cas put Dean back into the remains of his body and… you should have seen where we buried him when he did, Sam. All the trees were flattened in a circle around his grave. _All_ of them! Like an atomic explosion had gone off. Dean had to climb out of his own grave…

And he came home.”

He stared at the young man’s incredulous face. “Angels?” it was all Sam could whisper.

Bobby nodded: “Angels.

Anyways, this one hung around a while. Actually, Sam: I wondered if Dean was _ever_ able to truly love anyone, woman or man, it might have been _him_ …

And Castiel as well… he always stood so close to Dean, _so_ close. Their mouths would almost touch when they were speaking and then the boy would get embarrassed and tell him to get out of his personal space… But he always seemed happy to see Castiel… _Once_ he’d got used to him and his ways…

John _hated_ him.”

“Because he was a supernatural being, I suppose.” Sam tried to keep his voice neutral and failed miserably. He didn’t like the sound of this Castiel. Not at all.

And, I think, John wanted to be the one to have rescued his son. Jealously is a _blinding_ thing.” Bobby was watching Sam carefully as he spoke: “Didn’t seem to _matter_ that Dean was back safely: he just hated the one who had done it before _he_ could.

And then he was shouting at the boy for being such a god-damned idgit to have got himself in that situation in the first place. Told him that the whole Apocalyse would have been _his_ fault if it had happened. He had put others in harm’s way to rescue him.

That he had proved himself to be as useless as John had always _known_ him to be.

Nah, it wasn’t a happy home-coming for Dean. And he now has years of nightmares to relive every time he closes his eyes to boot.”

He sighed. And stretched. They had been talking for a long time and the sun was definitely rising in the sky by now. Bobby stumbled to his feet, wincing as his knees complained from being hooked beneath the table for so long and his ass grumbled at the hardness of the wooden kitchen chair.

“I’ll go out and get him in. Try and get him to go back to bed for a while...”

“ _I’m_ getting him, Bobby.” It was decisive. _Not_ to be argued with. But Sam was pausing even as he was starting to cross to the back door. “Is the… is the Angel still around, Bobby? And what happened…? With the demon?”

The old man shook his head. “He was. For a long time Cas was. He used to come and meet Dean: they… got a bond, Sam. That mark: it connects them somehow. He always used to come immediately when Dean called him.

And Dean _would_ call him… I think he became as close as a brother to the boy… Possibly closer.

But… then Castiel started saying something was going on in heaven… some of the other Angels had actually _wanted_ the Apocalyse and they were fighting each other… We saw him less and less.

Well… _I_ saw him less and less. Whether _Dean_ still did, I…” Bobby removed his cap to scratch his head… “Well…

As for Azazel? They found him again, a year or so later. It was Dean who actually killed him, Sam: John had found this weapon that would kill anything. The Colt.  They _got_ him, boy.

Got the bastard for killing Mary. Little Sammy. For _Dean_ , although I know that sounds crazy…

He’d been giving babies his blood… feeding them demon blood. That’s what he was doing in the nursery that night, he was feeding _Sammy_. Mary must have caught him in there…”

“Demon blood? Why?”

“To try and create… I was going to say an army, Sam. But it was more like, creating an _heir_. Every child he infected got powers of some sort as they reached maturity: visions; abilities to control minds; to move things without touching them… Some of them got really nasty, boy. We had to take down a few. They were every bit as much monsters as Azazel was…”

“Visions?”

Bobby grunted in response. But he took a good hard look at Sam: the young man’s eyebrows were drawn together in a frown and he seemed momentarily lost in thoughts of his own..

The old man couldn’t help but wonder… he would have been around the right age…

But he continued calmly talking: “It all seemed to settle down once Azazel had been killed. I don’t know if all their powers died _with_ him, or if any remaining ones simply managed to control it, or even if there _were_ any of them left at all anyway…

Well. It’s all a long time ago now. Dean and John remained Hunting. Nothing between them changed…

They’ve saved a lot of lives, Sam. A lot of people are alive because of Dean, boy. And I doubt he can count on more than one hand how many actually said thank you… Or even realised that they’d ever _been_ in danger…

That’s what the Winchester’s _did_. Right up until the accident.

I sat in that hospital and _prayed_ in that hospital for Cas to come and help Dean: he could have healed him like _that_ , Sam.” The old man snapped his fingers… and sighed. “And I _know_ his name was the first thing the boy said when he opened his eyes again…

But Castiel never came. Never responded. Not seen him for a long time now, Sam.

And since he left hospital… I’ve never heard Dean mention his name again.

Never.”


	14. The Beginning of a Bond

Sam all but stumbled out of the back door to look for his master. His thoughts were a tumultuous turmoil twisting inside him. He still couldn’t believe that any of that was true…

How _could_ it be true?

But… somehow… he knew it was. Trust and acceptance were overriding logic without question.

He needed to find Dean.

By now he knew the older man well enough to head straight for where he instinctively knew he would be, finding Dean near the spot where he had had his accident those months before. He couldn’t help but sigh with relief as his master was actually still in his wheelchair as he had promised, sitting slightly back from the fence so to still be on the rough-gravelled small track that ran between the stacks of cars and yet be able to see the tops of the range of mountains and, more importantly, the remains of the sunrise above them.

Sam only paid it a passing glance as he approached his master, appreciating the beauty of the slowly fading pinks and corals as full sunlight began to override them, but not really interested. The _only_ thing that mattered to him was the man sitting quietly watching the sky: damp track marks of salt still down both his cheeks.

The younger man didn’t even hesitate.

He was striding across, stepping around the front of the wheelchair, and just settling himself sideways in the older man’s lap before he had even thought: the weight of his ass resting on one of his master’s thighs while somehow he was getting his booted feet up on to the chair as well, all but doubling his legs at the knees in the progress until he could sit with them on Dean’s other leg while at the same time managing to squash the top half of his body into a space a few sizes smaller than it actually was because he _needed_ to be able to get his head against the other’s shoulder.

He didn’t know _why_ he did that, he didn’t know why it suddenly mattered so much… but it just seemed right. And it didn’t even occur to him that he might be hurting Dean, because Sam just _knew_ that… the other man would take his full weight without complaint. _More_ than without complaint…

It would be taken with _acceptance_.

And indeed it was… because, although Dean hadn’t even turned his head in acknowledgement of the other’s arrival, his body had immediately responded to the young man’s actions and his arms were straight away moving to enfold Sam in a tight embrace: one hand sliding around his back, the other around his folded-in-half legs, and he was holding him to his chest as closely as he would have a much-loved child…

And Sam’s arms were also snaking around his master as well, careful not to pull him forwards from the back of the wheelchair too abruptly in case he caused Dean’s back to be painful again, but tight enough to ensure that there was no room for _anything_ to ever get between them… so close that to an onlooker it would have seemed that where one of their bodies ended, the other’s began…

They sat like that in total silence for a few minutes: Sam listening to his master’s pulsating heartbeat as it echoed through where his head was pressed against the top of the other man’s chest, and Dean steadfastly watching the last stunning remnants of the colours of a new dawn fade and be forgotten forever by the brightness of the promised new day.

Then, Sam began to move. Slowly. Purposefully.

Lifting his head enough, just enough, to get his lips against Dean’s jaw…

Then against the side of his face…

Followed by the corner of his lips…

Kissing and licking and nipping enough to make the older man close his eyes in pleasure at the sensations rolling over him…

And then respond…

… Just as slowly. At first gently turning slightly to meet Sam’s mouth with his own… then parting his pink lips to allow the young man’s tongue to sneak between them and start to worship his.

Finally Dean sighed with arousal and moved his whole head enough so he could let Sam use his face as the young man desired, simply allowing him to take the lead in an open-mouthed kiss so full of passion and tenderness that neither wanted it to ever end: both of their bodies unmoving and locked together in a Chinese puzzle of torsos and limbs in the seat of the wheelchair, fused together by strong hands now reaching to catch and begin to stroke through short and long soft  hair and pull lips impossibly even closer.

Sam poured everything he _had_ into that kiss. He used it to tell his master how sorry he was for everything that had happened… not because it _had_ happened, but because, somehow, he didn’t understand why, but he felt he should have _been_ there with Dean: he so wished he _could_ have been there with him, by his side where he belonged, protecting the man he loved so much against all of this hurt. He felt he would have done absolutely _anything_ to have been there with the older man, just as long as they could have faced it _together_.

And he didn’t understand why he felt so _safe_ with his master, but he did. He had right from their very first meeting: it had felt like he had found where he _belonged_. And Sam wanted the older man to know… to _believe_ … that despite all the pain, all the humiliation, all the abuse he had suffered, he still wouldn’t change a single moment of his life, no matter what, if it meant that he might never had found Dean.

Because he might never have had _this_.

And Dean poured all _his_ buried emotions into it as well: his fears; his self-loathing; his uselessness in being swept up in a situation that he had _never_ had any control of.

His life of being so lonely.

His desperation to be loved, even though he knew he was so unlovable.

And his own over-whelming, completely all-encompassing and almost instantaneous love for Sam upon first sight that _terrified_ him: he would do _anything_ for the younger man, to keep him safe…

He _knew_ he would. Because Sam just mattered to him that much already and always would.

He would do absolutely anything as long as it meant that Sam was okay. That he was happy. That he was safe.

He would go back to Hell for him if that’s what it took.

Finally all the emotions had been merged, absorbed, and become part of each other, and they were left with no choice but to come up for air and try and actually breathe…

Sam rested his forehead against Dean’s, still with his large hand wrapped around the back of his master’s head thrilling at the feel of the soft short locks between his fingers, and his other arm tightly around his master’s body holding him as close as he possibly could. He was never going to let him go: he was never going to let him go through anything like that alone again.

He knew his whole weight was on Dean’s legs: he was probably hurting him. He knew he should move. He knew he should be worried the other would be angry at him.

Dean would _never_ be angry at him.

Sam knew _that_ more than anything else.

“I don’t think I can feel them anymore.”

The deep gravelly voice breaking the long moments of complete silence made Sam start momentarily, but he didn’t move. Instead he couldn’t help but smile: “You don’t need them anyway: that’s what you’ve got me for!”

There was a responsive grunt. “Yeah… yeah, I’ve got you. Don’t know why, but I feel complete now you’re here… But I would like to try and use these stupid things again as well so…”

His voice trailed off. Sam understood what he meant though: that’s how _he_ felt as well. As if he were finally whole… although he had never before realised that he had ever been broken…

He wriggled his firm, if somewhat slightly bony ass on Dean’s lap, appreciating the feel of the older man’s hard-on beneath his denims, and did his best attempt at a seductive whisper: “I could take care of that for you, if you’d like. Right here. Right now.”

The response was another grunt and warm lips ghosting against the tip of his nose: “I’d like. God, _really_ I’d like. _But_. Bobby was here a few minutes ago checking on us and he may still be around.”

Sam stared. He hadn’t heard anything at all. But obediently, with a smile and one last kiss, he set about trying to unfold himself from his contorted, ‘man-in-a-suitcase’ position enough to stand up, or at least attempt to, on his own, now very much complaining, legs. They cracked and popped their disgust at his actions, causing him to wince and stamp around for a few steps just to try and get the blood flowing back around the rest of his body rather than where it had all immediately congregated to the moment he had sat on his master’s lap, whimpering a little at the pins and needles sensation shooting up through his feet.

Eventually he had recovered enough and held out his hand to his master, for some reason expecting the other to stand and walk back to the house with him. It somehow came as a surprise when Dean reached back with his own damaged left hand, but then released the brake on the chair and began to try and propel it with only his right, going off the small track instantly at the resulting veer.

“I’m gonna need my hand back,” he apologised.

“You’re gonna need a push.” Sam replied with a wide grin.

They moved back to the house in a companionable silence. Once back inside the kitchen, Dean determinedly headed for the living room: “I ain’t sleepy. I can find something to do while you go on with your studies!  And we’ve got to fit in more driving lessons. And it would be a good idea if you learnt some basic mechanical skills in case my Baby ever breaks down and you need’m….”

“ _You_ are going to take your next lot of medication, and just rest quiet for a while.” Sam countered. “ _Then_ you can practice walking. With the stand, same as before: just up the hallway and back. The doctor said it’s important to keep your back moving, especially now.”

The older man glared up at him, but the twinkle in his still slightly pink-rimmed eyes gave away the underlying smirk: “Bossy, much?”

“Extremely.” Sam grinned back with full-on dimples. “ _Someone’s_ got to try and keep you in line.”

He was on the move suddenly. Before Dean had time to object, he was being lifted physically out of the chair and being placed gently onto his back on the couch. “Sam!”

“Shut up.” It was said with a smile and a kiss: then he was being fetched his meds, a glass of water, and the western novel that he was halfway through reading, and Sam was deserting him for a few minutes while he went to the restroom.

By the time he returned and looked back into the living room, Dean was fast asleep, the pages of his book caught in an upside-down open position on his chest.

The slave’s heart caught in his throat at how young and beautiful his master looked… and how innocent, _despite_ all the stories he had just been told about him. He managed to resist the temptation to simply wrap himself around the older man where he lay and hold him tight as he slept, and went to find Bobby instead.

He found him upstairs, busy in the room that had been meant to be Sam’s when he had arrived. Some of each of their clothes were already hanging in the wardrobe, and the old man was obviously in the process of bringing up the rest of the belongings from where they had been sleeping downstairs.

Sam set to help him with the lightest heart that he had ever known: he had never felt so happy, and between them, they moved both the chest of drawers up. Bobby then left him to arrange things as he wanted, and to make it as much of a home as possible for himself and his master…

…although Sam already knew that _wherever_ Dean was would be Home to him.

 _Anywhere_.

He couldn’t help from fussing a little though. They might still be living at Bobby’s house, and still be sharing a room just as they had for the last few months, but… now it was different.

 _Now_ , he and his master were going to be sharing a bed. Because they both _wanted_ to. They were going to be living as… as… lovers.

As a couple.

Sam wanted the room to be nice. He tried to think of ways he could make it homely: how he could make it _theirs_.

Bobby had told him he could use anything he needed from around the house, so the young man ‘borrowed’ a picture of a waterfall-scened forest from another unused room, and a couple of small padded bedroom chairs as well. He was just trying to decide if they fitted better beneath the small window or in the corner when he heard a gruff grumble from behind him:”Ya want I get you some flowers as _well_ , boy? _Really_ make it pretty?”

Sam felt equal measures of embarrassment and irritation as his face flushed bright red. “It’s… I just want it to be perfect, Bobby. I know it’s only… but it’s a new start. For us _both_ …”

“Yeah, I get it, boy….” The old man actually did, and he was sorry that he’d upset the slave by talking without thinking again… but then he was turning his head as a movement caught the corner of his eye: “What in tarnation? What are _you_ doing up here, ya damned idgit! I…!”

But he stopped talking abruptly as Dean, who had made his way slowly and carefully up the stairs to find out what was going on, pushed himself physically away from the wall at the top of them, wobbled a little on his two feet but slowly steadied, and then with a deep breath began to walk carefully on his own down the corridor towards where the incredulous old man and Sam, who had hurried to the bedroom door as soon as Bobby had started speaking to the only other possible person in the house that he _could_ be talking to, were standing anxiously waiting, wary of snatching at him and knocking him off balance again. “Dean, you _shouldn’t_ be…!”

But Sam’s anxious words were dismissed with a slight wave that caused a visible tremor through his master’s body. The young man exclaimed: Bobby caught his wrist to keep him from surging forward to help even as Dean reached his hand out to be ready to use the wall as support if he needed it, but then kept coming towards the other two.

On his own.

One step in front of each other.

Slowly and steadily.

“I couldn’t get the wheelchair up the stairs and you told me to practice my walking…”

“Not like _this!_ You _know_ I didn’t mean like this!” Sam was seriously going to _kill_ him. “You should have at least waited until I was there with you… what if you fall again?” 

“Yeah, well, quit your bitch-face: I’m fine, _really_ , Sam.”

“My… _bitch-face_ …?”

The young man was stunned into silence momentarily. He looked to Bobby for assistance.

The old man shrugged nonchalantly:  “See? Like I said: a stubborn and stupid-assed _nightmare!_ You get him settled: he’s _your_ problem now.”

And Bobby was stepping out of the way as Dean, having taken a few minutes to travel what he would once have done in a few strides, finally reached them: not only in an attempt to stop himself from trying to reach out to grab the idgit boy either as unwanted support, or, as he actually felt _more_ like doing, to give him a damn good shake as to be so _stupid_ as to try and walk on his own again so soon…. but also to try and hide the emotional prickling of moisture threatening to gather in his eyes at the sight of his much loved surrogate son up and walking on his own two feet again.

 _Jesus_ , but he was turning into a girl!

Sam wasn’t quite so unforthcoming. Even as Dean moved to surreptitiously lean against the door frame, he was moving to wrap his arms tightly around his master’s body and arms and hold him tightly, hard enough that Dean winced slightly and tried to push him away, failing miserably as he realised that he couldn’t move his upper limbs, and instead had to take the only sensible option to just let himself be held with a sigh as the now slightly trembling young man recovered his emotions…

“Seriously, I’m _fine_ , Sam: I don’t want to fall again _either_. I’m gonna be careful, really I am. But I can _do_ this. _And_ I wanted to see what you were doing with the room.” And Dean was looking around them with interest. “It looks good.”

“You think so?” Sam fought down his dread that his beloved master might have just hurt himself through being reckless and instead returned to being simply strangely anxious: what if Dean hated what he had done? What if he didn’t want to sleep in here? What if he didn’t want to sleep with _Sam?_ What if…?

“Definitely, Sammy.” As Dean finally got free from him and began to try and take the last couple of steps to get to the bed and sit down. “No flowers, though? That would have been nice…”

“That’s what Bobby said, but I thought you wouldn’t… I mean….Would you…would you… _like_ flowers?” Sam had his arm around his master’s waist in tight support and was walking him across the room whether he wanted the assistance or not. “I can get some, what are your favourites…?”

Then he was blushing again as the two other men shared a glance and burst into laughter, breaking the tension of the moments’ before mood.

“I don’t know _which_ one of you is the most whipped, I _really_ don’t!” And Bobby was taking his leave of them both, still chuckling. “I’ve got some chores to do outside, and there’s some wood you can chop for me later please, Sam. _Not_ you…“ before Dean could open his mouth… “But right now, just get him resting. _And_ you as well. boy: we all had an early start this morning….”

His laughter could be heard echoing up the stairwell as he descended. Dean reached up from where he was now sitting on the bed, pulled Sam within range by the simple method of tugging on the collar of his overshirt, and kissed the pout off the younger man’s face: “It looks amazing in here, Sam: you’ve made it into a home for us. And I don’t feel up to trying to get back _down_ the stairs just yet… so… will you stay with me for a little while…?”

The young man glanced at his master… saw the wicked twinkle in the amazing green eyes… and was immediately happy to agree.

But even as he began to lean forward for a repeat of their earlier external make-out session, Dean was putting both hands up against his chest to stop him. “I’m gonna need more pillows, Sammy. There any more downstairs?”

“I think so. Wait there: I’ll get them, master.” And Sam was hurrying to fetch them.

He was surprised when he ran back into the room mere moments later to find that somehow the older man had moved with even more speed: Dean was now lying beneath the covers on the bed, and from the lack of any visible garments on his top half and a pile of discarded clothing on the floor beside the bed, Sam felt it safe to surmise that his master had somehow not only got himself naked but was _very_ happy to see him return.

The young man’s own cock was earnestly responding even as his mouth began to drool at the sight of the tent being made under the thin blankets. Quickly he turned to close the door firmly behind him just in case Bobby decided to come back upstairs for any reason…

“Pillows.”

Surprised, Sam handed them over. He bent to remove his boots and socks even as Dean carefully piled the cushions up behind where he was lying, enough to create a small triangle of padded softness that would support his back and neck in a half-upright position.

The young man was confused. “You’re too far down the bed, master. There’s a good couple of feet difference between you and the headboard…?”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean smirked at him and held out his hand. “Shirts off!”

Sam stared but eagerly obeyed, ripping away a couple of the buttons in his haste to get rid of the offending garments. His arousal rose even as he registered the darkening appreciation in the older man’s eyes as his muscled, perfectly toned torso was exposed.

“God, Sammy,” Dean’s voice somehow dropped another octave in pitch and Sam’s arousal shot up another notch in response: “Why you want to put up with me when everybody else and their sister would fall to their knees for just a _glimpse_ of that… You are… truly…” He couldn’t think of a good enough word to describe how beautiful the younger man’s chiselled body was, and the thought of being _beneath_ it was…

He could scarcely breathe.

He just _wanted_ …

“C’mere.”

The slave happily obeyed, moving closer to the bed and reaching to take the hand that his master was offering to him. Then, to his surprise and somewhat shock, Dean’s arm was shooting out with blurringly fast speed, grabbing around Sam’s denimed ass cheek and pulling him physically towards him.

Sam stumbled a little, but didn’t have time to react as the older man now had him within range of his right arm as well. Both of his hands were grasping and squeezing the perfectly toned and contoured cheeks within the next instant, with such a determined hold that the young man was forced even nearer to his master’s prone body…

… and then on and over.

Sam gasped as he was manhandled physically onto both the bed _and_ Dean. The strength of the older man never failed to take him by surprise: he thought _he_ was quite fit but he had realised at just about their first meeting that, his master, even _with_ his injuries, seemed to consist entirely of pure, solid, temptingly lickable muscle, but even so…

The _way_ that his larger body was being manipulated and moved right at that moment… as if it were nothing… both excited and terrified Sam simultaneously. He had been manhandled by previous masters often, but always there had been violence involved: there had been blows to stun him; slaps that had left red marks for days; limbs twisted unnaturally to almost cause them to snap and him to submit…

He was a large man: Sam _knew_ he was a large man. Both height-wise and, when he was allowed to take care of himself, in imposing bulk. That had been challenge enough for all his other owners, and the prize had been cruel, demeaning, physical domination…

But _now?_

Dean was moving him as if he were _nothing_.

But _without_ any intention to dominate.

Rather, he was letting Sam have the top… _literally_. The young man nearly panicked as he was forced up onto the bed with such determination that he was all but scrambling with his limbs to catch up, worrying not for himself and his own safety… on the contrary, he felt completely safe in his master’s hands even now… but actually that he was _hurting_ the other man as he had no choice but to physically kneel on Dean’s chest momentarily with his left leg before he managed to slide it across to hit the mattress the other side of the prone body.

Then Sam was nearly slipping and kneeing the older man in the shoulder with his right leg as he was pulled higher up the torso below him until his groin was dangerously close to Dean’s face: “Oh master, I’m sorry…”

The only indication that it had caused pain was a grunt from the older man, but then he was releasing his grasp on Sam’s ass to instead move both his hands to the front of the tight denims… “I know I promised you a tongue bath, Sammy, but I don’t think I can quite do that yet. But I’m hoping that _this_ will do…”

The slave caught his breath and looked down. And realised, even as his master managed to get the flies of his denims open and yank both them and his boxers down out of the way, that he had been manhandled physically, without any question of argument, and really, really _easily_ , until he was in the position he was _now_ , and that was kneeling on the bed with his left leg tucked into Dean’s right armpit, his right almost up by the older man’s head albeit it had slipped through the pile of cushions that the older man was resting on to the more solid mattress beneath… and his now exposed, and very hard, cock was directly in line with two perfect, plump, pink lips…

Scrub that… even as Sam registered the fact and moaned at the thought of one of his fantasies coming true… it had become reality. Dean leant slightly forward and… the young man was in _Heaven!_ “Oh, Dean…”

But the older man wasn’t finished yet. Dean’s hands were now back on his ass, one pert cheek being held in each, and he was pulling the young man in, then pushing him back, then in… and Sam’s hips were getting the message, beginning to thrust of their own volition: “Master, _Dean!_ You don’t _have_ to! I… Oh my _God!_

Wait, _wait!_ ” It took everything Sam had to make himself pull himself out of the older man’s talented mouth.

Dean released his hold of him immediately and watched anxiously as the young man wobbled himself momentarily off the bed to stand beside it:  “Sammy? Isn’t this okay?”

But then his concerned expression was transforming to a smirk as the young man hastily tore at the rest of his clothing, uncaring of whether he ripped the brand new denims or not. Within a moment he was also completely naked and moving to climb back onto his master… but then he was hesitating momentarily… “Master? Can I…? I mean…”

“Come _here_ , Sammy: just use me. I mean it.” And he was leaning back on the bed, comfortable on his supportive cushions, even as Sam was already eagerly on the move: crawling back over the older man, although with far more care now that he was doing it himself, and tentatively offering his cock to those lips again… then squeaking as Dean simply grabbed for his ass with both hands once more and pulled him down, the young man grabbing for the headboard as support and suddenly realising that his master had positioned the pillows _perfectly_ to give them enough room….

To his chagrin, he didn’t last long. Dean took him so deep in his relaxed throat that he didn’t know how his master was managing not to breathe, and it just felt so fucking _good_ …

With every forward snap of his hips he was moaning: “Oh my God, oh my _God!_ Oh, Dean, Dean, _Dean_ … Oh God, I’m… No, no, not yet… Ohhh, _Deeeaaannn!_ ”

He felt the older man chuckle around him as he came, which only made the whole experience even _more_ intense.

Sam all but collapsed momentarily as his limbs suddenly felt as if they were all made of cotton candy… but then he was shimmying down the other’s body, slithering his whole weight carelessly now over his master until he was lying fully on top of him and could attack that talented mouth with his own lips, licking and sucking at Dean’s to show his gratitude for what had just been done, forcing his way between them with his own tongue in a sudden show of his own dominance that was lovingly submitted to.

Then Sam was realising: Dean hadn’t come yet. He could feel the other man’s cock still so hard that it would stab into his lower abdomen as he lay between his master’s legs.

Sam shifted a little, enough to get his knees slightly beneath him, and then… he was moving his hips, rolling them indecently against the older man’s groin… once, twice, three times. Dean’s eyes rolled back in his head… and he was coming between them, just like that.

The younger man couldn’t believe it. _He_ had done that! Just with a touch… well, three touches. And Dean looked so… raunched-out when he came that Sam was already getting hard again. _And_ ready to act on it!

He was attacking every inch of his master’s skin that he could reach from where he lay the very next minute, too excited by having the other man actually naked and beneath him to want to move from his position at _all_ , licking and sucking and nibbling…

“Ouch, Sammy, not so hard!” Dean flinched as the playful nips turned into bites. Really _firm_ bites.

The younger man paused and raised himself up on his arms momentarily, “What, master…?” Then his eyes were widening in horror as he took in the sight of indented semi-circles in the older man’s neck that were already filling with hot, scarlet liquid: “Oh God, did I do that? Did I do _that?_

I’m so sorry, master, I didn’t mean to, I…”

He was panicking: what had he just done? He had just ruined the moment… more importantly, he had just _hurt_ Dean. What if his master was angry?

He _deserved_ to be angry. Sam had just bitten him hard enough to cause him to bleed.

What the hell was _wrong_ with him?

“Sammy. Stop over-thinking this!” And Dean was reaching up with both hands and taking the younger man’s face tightly between them, forcing Sam to look at him. “I know this is how _you’ve_ been used to being treated: I know you’ve been bitten like this probably every single day.

It’s okay:I won’t break. And I’m certainly not cross at you.

So stop worrying and kiss me.”

That was an order the young man could happily obey… and indeed, _did._ Slowly he relaxed back into his mood of a moment ago…

But then he was feeling the other man shift uncomfortably beneath him as his back twinged a little despite the injection, and everything else was forgotten momentarily except for making sure that Dean was comfortable.

Sam leaned out of the bed and snatched up one his discarded shirts to use to wipe them both clean as much as possible before moving to lie beside his master instead. He began to rearrange the pile of pillows closer to the headboard, tutting a little as now there were too _many_. He wanted their first night together in the room… well, actually the first morning… to be perfect.

Dean lay and watched him with unconcealed amusement: the other man was definitely a perfectionist… _and_ , although Sam would probably collapse in a panic if it was ever pointed out to him… he was actually a real control-freak!

How he had managed to deal with everything that had been forced upon him through-out his life and still ended up being… this absolutely amazing, incredible, and somewhat bossy young man was _beyond_ Dean’s ability to understand.

And why he seemed to want to be with the older man every chance he got, especially like _this_ , was even _more_ perplexing. But Dean would take whatever he got for as long as it was offered...

He was prepared and ready, when Sam had _finally_ got himself comfortable and the pillows situated to his satisfaction that they would help support his master as they lay, to wriggle closer just as soon as the younger man raised his arm in invitation and lay his head against the firm, supportive chest, intentionally squashing their bodies together all the way down.

Sam twisted ever so slightly until he could reach his arm across Dean’s body to pull the cushions up close behind his master’s back for support… and left it resting there after, curling around the other man’s waist… and for good measure, also wrapping his top leg around him: “This okay?”

“S’good. Thanks.” The older man’s eyes were already closing again: the strong medications as well as the injection were still very much in his system and the effort of walking on his own just that short distance had proved _exhausting_. “Don’t let me sleep too long, Sammy: we’ve got stuff to do today and you better do these chores for Bobby as well…”

He felt the gentlest of lips brushing against the top of his head: “You’ll sleep as much as your body _needs_ , master, and not a single minute less.”

Dean nuzzled his head even more against the firm, warm skin beneath his cheek: “Bossy bitch.”

Sam grinned widely, the dimples going deep. He cast around in his mind for a comeback, a retort that he could use… but it daren’t be _too_ rude in case his beautiful master took offence and got angry with him… no, _no_ , Dean would never do that. Sam _knew_ he would never do that.

Still, he didn’t want to dare risk it _too_ much…

Finally he responded, keeping his voice as a low tentative whisper just in case… “Shut up, _jerk_.”

The resulting chuckle from the older man was music to his ears and gave him all the assurance he needed. Then he felt Dean’s breaths even out as sleep overtook him…

Sam lay for a few moments, his eyes looking around the room even as his mouth remained glued to the soft short hair it was nestled into. This was his room. Him and Dean’s.

 _Their_ room.

It was unbelievable.

It had to be all just a dream.

Dean murmured in his arms and somehow managed to manoeuvre himself even closer… Sam’s arms tightened impossibly more even as his own eyes also began to close both from lack of sleep and that amazing orgasm, but not before he had had time for another glance around the room…

Actually, his master had been right…

It _did_ need something else…

Just a finishing touch.

Sam’s last coherent thought before falling soundly asleep for a couple of hours was that he was _definitely_ going to get some flowers to sit in a vase on the chest of drawers by the window…

Below them, out in the yard, Bobby’s cheeks were still blazing scarlet.

He had been joking about the noise just because it was fun to embarrass the boy, but…

… that had been _loud!_ And, from the sounds of it, that had only been _Sam!_

Bobby worked on the engine of his truck and considered… he was going to have to buy ear defenders. Really good ones!

Or move his own bed to the furthest room away possible.

Or ask Jodie if she’d mind him bunking down at her house occasionally.

Or frigging well move to another frigging County!

God-damned idgit boys, interrupting his life in all ways…

But, he couldn’t help the small lift that threatened to appear at each of the corners of his mouth…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling that this story is nearing the end - probably one more chapter, perhaps two. I'm sure Sam would love to go Hunting but they definitely both deserve a happy ending.  
> Thank you so much to all for your lovely comments: they really do mean a lot. xxx


	15. The Future's in the Right Direction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you to everyone for the lovely comments: it really does mean a lot when people take the time to let me know what they think. (Nice ones preferably: they make me feel warm and cosy inside)  
> Secondly, I know I get Americanism’s wrong, (it does get pointed out quite often). I apologise: I do try to get it right (mostly by watching American sitcoms and Supernatural), but if I do put something in that all of you shake your head at and go ‘well, that’s wrong!’, please let me know and I’ll try to correct it.  
> Thirdly, the last chapter has turned out completely differently from how I envisioned it in my head, and indeed how I tried to write it! Every time I tried to steer it back to the direction I wanted it to take, somehow it wouldn’t… and this is the result. So I apologise if it’s not what you all were expecting (it’s not what I was expecting!), but I’m as happy with it as I think I can be. And the ‘ending’ ending, at least, is what I was always intending so I’m pleased I got it there eventually…  
> Thanks again for reading: hope you enjoy.  
> Here we go :)

“Com’n Sammy! It’s Tuesday! You better be up and at’em if you’re coming with me today!”

The younger man couldn’t help but groan: surely it wasn’t really morning already? Without opening his eyes, he let one long arm stray across the bed hoping it would make contact with the warm body of his master before the other man could escape… but Dean was already standing in his robe at the door and laughing at his bleariness, before carefully departing in the direction of the upstairs bathroom.

He had managed to amaze both Bobby and Sam... and terrify them both at the same time… with his determination to walk again. Getting back down the stairs that first day that they had moved into their new room had just about physically wiped him out and he had been more than relieved to just stay in the wheelchair for the rest of the day until he had to go back up them that evening, but now he had the knowledge that he _could_ walk by himself… just for a few steps at least…

… and _that_ was going to make Dean all but single-minded about the subject from then on.

At one stage, it had seemed to the younger man that every time he turned around, his master was somehow standing up on his two feet, arms held out to the sides for balance… but slowly, steadily… day by day, week by week: it may not have been happening as fast as Dean _wanted_ it to, but, step by step… no pun intended… walking began to feel more and more of second-nature again.

Obviously some of the days had gone better than others: there were times his back felt almost normal and easy and he would think that it _was_ actually getting better: then other days he would be tired, it would be sore, he would twist without thinking, and the pain in his spine would all but drive him to his knees…

He fell a few times that Sam knew of and the slave would worry, and fret, and become almost paranoid about not allowing Dean to do anything at _all_ in case he damaged the weak vertebrae of his back again, and in turn, he had grumped and grumbled as if to try and drive away even the young man he already loved so much from his side, although there was no _way_ that Sammy was going _anywhere_ and he had _told_ his master so in no uncertain terms and a few choice four-lettered words…

… and he fell more than a few times that Sam _didn’t_ know about. And Dean was determined to _keep_ it that way.

But overall… he began to improve.

By the end of the first week, Dean could walk unassisted from the top of the stairs to their bedroom to the bathroom and back again on his own without falling… _nearly_ almost every time. It wasn’t long after that he was doing the same around the ground floor as well. Then he was attempting to walk out to his Baby on his own ready to take Sam out for a driving lesson, or to the store… or to the nearest bar.

And gradually, little by little, the distances he could manage once they had got to their destination had started to increase as well, although Sam always insisted that they take the wheelchair with them in the car for when Dean got tired.

Which he did.

Sam was _so_ proud of his beautiful master: Dean was no less than _incredible_ in _every_ way. It felt amazing to have him walk beside him when they were out, surreptitiously holding each other’s hands, or to just be able to stand with his arms around his master: the smaller man just seeming to fit against his larger body as if made to be there.

But it didn’t stop him from sighing as he heard the bedroom door smoothly close: did they really have to get up? Why couldn’t they both just stay together beneath the covers where it was _soooo_ comfortable?

He rolled onto his back and stretched out his long limbs, luxuriating in the feel of the brand new memory-foam mattress beneath him. The original that had been in situ when he had arrived had lasted precisely thirteen weeks, three days and fourteen hours since they both had moved into the room before Dean had groaned beneath Sam, who was enthusiastically riding him at the time, and declared that it was doing his back no good at all… not at _all_.

The young man had been momentarily upset that _he_ was the cause of his master’s discomfort, causing Dean to reach up with both hands and drag him down for a consoling, lingering, and incredibly _dirty_ passionate kiss that had caused Sam to come all over both their chests right there and then.

But the decision to change the mattress had been made, and to the slave’s incredulity, _he_ had actually been allowed to help choose the new one. More than that: his wonderful master had _insisted_ that he be there, because ‘you’re gonna use it just as much as I am, Sammy!’

Even as he was lying there, Sam couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of the older man. In fact, all he seemed to be _doing_ lately was smiling. His whole world had changed yet _again_ …

… so much that sometimes he couldn’t really believe it…

… seriously, how could his life be this wonderful?

 _Everything_ was wonderful.

Everything!

The smile was wiped suddenly off of Sam’s face: what had Dean just said? It was Tuesday? _Tuesday?_

 _Shit_.

Sam _hated_ Tuesdays!

Well… at least… he seriously wasn’t _keen_ about them. _Or_ Thursdays at the moment, for that matter…

By this time, Sam was already out from beneath the covers and racing after his master, running across the upstairs corridor to the bathroom heedless of the fact that he was totally naked… and completely oblivious to a somewhat stunned Bobby who had just rounded the corner at the top of the stairs…

The old man averted his eyes and cussed beneath his breath: really, it was worse than living with frigging teenagers! Stupid pair of idgits! He stomped moodily to his own room and all but slammed the door shut behind him…

Sam paused once inside the bathroom: his master was already in the shower and standing with his back to him, the noise of the running water deafening him to the younger man’s arrival. He moved forward much more cautiously, careful not to rush into the cubicle in case he caused Dean to startle and fall: that was definitely a fear that they both shared since the older man had started standing up on his own two feet again.

Instead Sam took a minute to appreciate the view through the panel of frosted glass: _God_ , Dean was beautiful.  The line of those strong shoulders tapering down to that defined waist, and the shape of that perfect ass…

The young man had woken up with severe morning wood, as he had just about _every_ morning since he had come to live there, and now, as he watched his master with fresh memories of having his large hands  touching all _over_ that body, feeling the warmth and firmness of the skin, breathing in the musky taste of his master… his _lover_ … so his arousal became _unbearable._

It was less than a moment’s thought to join Dean in the shower. Sam made sure to make enough noise as he opened the door to alert the older man of his presence and slipped inside the cubicle, immediately sliding his arms around the other’s hips and stepping in close enough to him that the single-headed shower was easily able to cover them both with droplets of warm water.

He felt rather then heard Dean’s deep chuckle ripple through his body: “I _thought_ the mention of what day it was would get you out of bed…”

“Jerk.” Dean could only just hear the now accustomed insult as Sam didn’t even pause to take his mouth away from where he was already sucking and nibbling at the back of his master’s right shoulder just at the point where it joined his neck, already intent on refreshing the current mark… _his_ mark… on the other man.

It didn’t matter that Dean’s shirts instantly covered it up once he got dressed, _Sam_ would know it was there. And as his master’s response was to gasp and tilt his head to the left to allow him more access, he knew it didn’t matter to the older man either.

Sam wondered what Dean’s response would be if he reached forward enough to take a tight hold of his master’s cock. The resulting moan and immediate hardening to fullness in his hand told him that the other man was fully on board with _that_ as well.

“Shit, Sam, we haven’t got time: we’ve got to go…”

The slave moved his mouth to start creating another mark beside the first on Dean’s neck, thrilling at the even louder moan that it caused: “What if I not only drive you there, but stop right at the entrance and carry you straight to the room?”

“What if…” Dean responded even as his cock reflexively twitched in Sam’s tight grasp… “What if… I just leave you here every day in future because if you _dare…!_ Oh, my God…” as the younger man sniggered despite his preoccupation and expertly began to pleasure him with a long, rhythmic stroking motion, causing his master to lean his head back despite himself until it was resting against the firm chest behind him. “Oh, fuck… do it… But we’ve got to be quick… I… Oh God, Sammy, _do_ it…”

Sam’s breath caught in his throat: even though he was just about permanently ready to have sex lately, he hadn’t expected _this_ …”You mean it, master? I’ll just get you ready…”

But even as he was moving his unoccupied fingers down to Dean’s ass, not able to resist the temptation to briefly cup it as he did, the older man was also changing position, pulling forward and slightly away from the slave until he could brace both his own hands in readiness against the wall: “I’m still okay from last night, Sammy.”

“Dean… are you sure…? I couldn’t bear it if I hurt you...”

“Do it, do it, do it…” And the older man was rubbing his ass against Sam’s groin, uncaring of the water still cascading down over them both and causing the slave to nearly come right away from the sensation.

Quickly but carefully he lined himself up and gently pushed into Dean, half-terrified that he might be causing him pain, before also leaning forward so he could cover the smaller body with his own, one hand still rhythmically stroking its contained treasure while he used his other arm to gather his master close to him… “Ready?”

Sam couldn’t help but chuckle at the sigh that echoed from the other man: “I’m fine, Sammy. You won’t break me! Now _move!_ ”

Even as the slave eagerly obeyed, he was feeling his usual disbelief at not only that the older man was allowing him to _do_ this, because nobody had _ever_ let him top before… but also… and _far_ more importantly, just how _incredible_ Dean’s body felt around him. He now understood why it had been done to _him_ … although he would always hate that it _had_ , and in such violent ways… but just the sensation of being _in_ another man…

Of touching every part of another’s body, inside and out.

Of being allowed to know every perfect inch of Dean… Every… Single… Bit…

Sam _always_ had to pause just to savour the intense euphoria that he felt, and occasionally pinch himself in disbelief before he could continue, even though he knew his master always assumed that the hesitation was out of concern for _him_.

The only thing that he had found was even _more_ unbelievable, was the realisation that Dean was just as eager for the sex as _he_ was.

He had reached to pull Sam on top of him that very first night in _their_ new room… and the younger man had been determined to keep his promise to make it _amazing_.

He had taken his time with the older man’s body, opening him with his fingers even as he was exploring _all_ of the rest of him, and when he had finally felt assured enough that Dean was as relaxed as he possibly could be, he had made love to him all night, with Sam being as gentle and attentive as he had been that very first time with his Mistress Ruby, wary of doing anything that might hurt his master’s back…

It had been the most incredible thing that Sam had ever known.

He had lain in the afterglow, still panting slightly and elated at what had just happened. But slowly, he became aware that the older man didn’t seem as happy. In fact, although his arms were as tightly wrapped around Sam’s chest as the young man’s arms were around his shoulders and his face was all but crushed into the slave’s chest beside his armpit, there was a definite tension through his whole smaller body.

Sam immediately was fearful: had he done something wrong? Had he hurt his master somehow? Had Dean simply _hated_ being the bottom? He was twisting himself on the mattress, wriggling around and slightly down the bed so he could try and see the other man’s face, his anxiety heightening as Dean steadfastly kept his head down and all but buried against Sam’s neck. “Master? What’s wrong? Dean? Did I do something wrong? I didn’t mean to, I won’t ever again: _please_ don’t hate me…”

That, at least, got the instant response of Dean shifting his own position enough to look straight at him with equal concern: “No. _No_ , Sammy. That was amazing. Really, really… _Seriously_ , that was fantastic. For _me_. And I want to do that again and again and again…”

He paused. And began to rest his head beneath Sam’s again, nudging forward enough as if to try to fit into the space beneath the younger man’s solid jaw…

Sam tightened his arms and wouldn’t let him move in any direction: “But…?”

“But?”

“There’s a but, Dean. I can hear it in your voice. What’s wrong? Just talk to me.” He pleaded with the older man with his eyes, feeling not only upset but slightly tearful: he had just had the most amazing experience of his life thanks to this wonderful man and he had messed up somehow. He was useless. He couldn’t anything right. All his other masters had been correct: he was just a useless slave, the _most_ useless…

Dean sighed: “I wanted it to be perfect for _you_ as well.”

Sam blinked. And stared at him, He couldn’t even think of how to answer, he was so surprised by that comment. Instead he just waited…

Dean stared back as if he’d expected Sam to understand… but then he realised the younger man’s confusion, sighed again and looked away with obvious slight nervousness to study the solid chest in front of him with unwavering but desperate intensity. “That was incredible, Sammy: _really_. You’re so gentle with me. You’re always so _caring_ about me. I just…”

He paused again. Sam moved his head just enough that he could nudge his nose against his master’s: the action hard enough to force the other man to look back up at him…

“I just wish I wasn’t so useless. I want _you_ to be satisfied. I want you to be able to let yourself go and really, really… _take_ … what you need, and not have to worry about this stupid body of mine and this fucking back, and how you might hurt me…

I want to give you everything, and I _can’t_. You should find someone else, Sam: someone that you can just have… really amazing, earth-shattering sex with that you can hardly walk after and you don’t care because it really hurts so _good_ …!”

He didn’t quite get to finish speaking those words properly because the young man’s tongue was suddenly somehow in his mouth, and there were a large pair of hands running all over him, and the large, toned body that he was already dreaming about every night was pressed right up against his again…

Dean could only gasp with surprise, and then gasp for breath, and then just give in and let Sam do what he was doing… and however incredible the sex between them had just been, what the young man was doing _now_ , not letting him even get his own arms loose enough to touch back, and the burning hot weight of heavy desire for _him_ , and the control in the kiss… he wasn’t being allowed to pull away… not that he _wanted_ to, but he wasn’t being given the chance to, he _wouldn’t_ be given the chance to  because right now, Sam was in charge…

And Dean loved it.

When they finally did have to break for air, the young man being nearly as breathless as he was, Dean took the chance to pant… “This is what I want. For you to…“

He felt the intensity of the blush that was blossoming over his face, but he forced himself to keep talking: the desperation and upset in Sam’s face of a few moments before had all but broken his heart. “I… I… _want_ you to be in control. I mean… I like it.”

His blush somehow managed to deepen as the young man’s eyes widened. “That was amazing, Sam. Really. My whole body’s _singing_ from what you just did to me! And I want… I hope… you’ll do it again. But, as well… I want you to not worry about holding back, or what my back… or I… can take, but just… help yourself! Use me! I love you holding me…

Down, I mean. I love you holding me _down_ , and like this…” He wriggled slightly in Sam’s still tight containing grip on his body to try and emphasise what he was saying… “I can’t _move_ , and you just take my mouth, and I… I… _love_ it, Sammy…

Just take the rest of me… I don’t _want_ to care about my back or whether I can take it. I want you to feel that you can let yourself go and just… _use_ … me. I want you to…

I want you to feel as incredible as you’ve made _me_ feel…”

Dean was by now bright red to the point that the tips of his ears were scarlet: he had tried to hold his gaze on Sam while he was speaking, but now embarrassment fully overtook him. _And_ realisation. What was he _saying?_

He was talking to a young man who had been tied down, beaten down and raped probably more times than Dean had had hot dinners, and who probably was desperate for just plain, gentle, loving, vanilla-flavoured sex: what the hell was he thinking?

He _wasn’t_ thinking.

Not about Sam.

He was thinking about himself… again.

John had always told him he was the most selfish person ever: even going to Hell had been just an act of selfishness when _he_ had thought he was saving his father and Bobby. He should never have been allowed to come back, he should have been left down there: he shouldn’t had been allowed this chance of happiness with this absolutely amazing young man who had just spent the best part of two hours pleasuring him, and touching every part of him with such tenderness, and… making love to him, and bringing him to probably the best orgasm he had ever had in his entire life…

Dean was a sick, sick, selfish bastard...

“I’m so sorry.” He began to try and pull away from Sam, to try and get the firm grasp around him to loosen. “I’ve ruined it: I always ruin it. I always open my fucking stupid big mouth and ruin everything. You are so wonderful, and that was so amazing, seriously it was, Sammy,”

 He was crying: shit, how pathetic could he get? John had always _told_ him he was pathetic and look how right he was…

“It was amazing, and I _feel_ amazing, and I should have _told_ you how amazing it was, and instead I’ve just gone and opened my fat fucking mouth and ruined it, and you must hate me so much: you don’t deserve something like me. You deserve someone who’ll treat you right and…”

“ _Dean._ ”

It was spoken with force. It was spat with _fury._

But not at _him_.

Just at his words.

The older man shut his mouth instantly at the order. Instead he stared nervously at Sam, waiting for the angry insults that would surely come next, the vitriol that he _deserved_ for spoiling the most wonderful night of his life…

Indeed, the young man opened his mouth as if to speak… but paused. And took more than a few seconds as he tried to find the exact words that he needed… “Dean: do you remember when you were in hospital after taking that overdose?”

The complete change of topic took the older man by surprise: it was his turn to blink. “I… vaguely. I was a bit out of it. I didn’t mean to though, Sammy: I just…”

“You just were in so much pain that you took too many tablets, I know.” And Sam was staring at him, meeting Dean’s eyes without blinking, with so many emotions swirling in his own that the older man couldn’t quite work it out… there were definitely tears, and desperate sadness, and overwhelming fear, and… full on joy… and behind it all, the tiniest glimmer of naughtiness.

“Your back was hurting so badly that you nearly killed yourself without realising. You _still_ don’t realise how close to death you were.

But I do.

Because it was me who found you and called your name over and over again, and you wouldn’t respond. Me who picked you up off the floor, or tried to, because your whole body was just so floppy and covered in such a clammy sweat that I momentarily was terrified you were already dead.

Me who watched them pumping your stomach in the hospital.

Me who sat by your bed and held your hand and _prayed_ for you not to die, to not leave me when I had only just found you. Because I already knew that I loved you so much that I would follow you anywhere, even into death… “

Dean started with horror and stared at him: “Sammy, I…”

He broke off immediately at the look the young man gave him and fell silent again. The slave was _not_ going to tolerate an interruption.

“Master… Do you think I would ever risk doing _anything_ that might cause that to happen again?”

This time he let Dean respond, and the older man’s words rushed out in a full-on gabble of verbal diarrhoea: “It never will, Sammy. I promised you, and I promised Bobby: I’ll _never_ lose track of my tablets again. And that’s what it was, Sammy: an accident, that’s all. I certainly never meant to kill myself, I’m sorry I scared you, and I’m sorry it happened…”

“It’s _never_ going to happen again, Dean.”

The older man met the controlled rage in the younger man’s eyes and swallowed slightly nervously. And with a slight excitement that was somehow pooling in his lower abdomen, because Sam _still_ hadn’t loosened his grasp on him in any way during the conversation.

He was _still_ holding Dean so tightly that the older man couldn’t move, couldn’t do _anything_ in fact, but meet his gaze and answer honestly, and yet… it wasn’t painful… or threatening…

Actually.

It was really calming.

Dean felt really _safe_.

“It never will, Sammy. I swear. Besides… _you_ look after my tablets for me now: _you_ make sure I take them when I’m meant to and don’t do anything stupid…”

“It never will, because your back is never going to _get_ that bad again.” Sam continued suddenly as if Dean hadn’t spoken a single _word_. “And I am not going to _do_ anything to let it get that bad again.

But I promise you master, that the moment I think your back _can_ take it, I am going to hold you down on the bed… I’m going to tie you down _to_ the bed… and I’m going to fuck you until you’re begging me to stop to give you a chance to gasp for breath, and then I’m going to pleasure you until you’re begging me to let you come, and then I’m going to fuck you some more until you can’t speak, or walk straight, or even sit down…

And then I’m going to do it all _again_.

Just the moment _I_ think your back can _take_ it.”

He was looking down at Dean now with a smirk, all anger forgotten.

And Dean wasn’t quite sure when or how they had turned on the bed so that he was still trapped in Sam’s safe strong arms but was now looking up at him… but it didn’t matter because the slave hadn’t broken eye contact with him once in the last few minutes and he could see the assertion behind the words...

It was all the older man could do to swallow and lick his now suddenly dry lips… and when he tried to speak, his voice came out as a definite croak: “Oh God, I like the sound of that.”

Sam kissed him, demanding access once more with his tongue that was immediately permitted: “It’s a _promise_. Oh, and master?”

"Yeah, Sammy?"

The slave leant up on his elbows momentarily: Dean felt a strange mixture of excitement, nervousness and fear as he stared up into an expression that contained the filthiest smile that he had ever seen… and it was entirely directed at _him._ “The very _instant_ I think your back can take it, _you_ are going to be doing the exact same things to _me!_ And _that’s_ a promise as well!”

To the younger man’s mind, that was to have been the end of the subject for a while. But he hadn’t reckoned with his master’s stubbornness, and his bloody-minded determination to make sure that Sam received a more than equal share of pleasure once they reached their bedroom each night…

At his insistence… and occasional pleadings, and more than a few incredible blow-jobs that had Sam’s brain so short-circuited that he would have sworn the world wasn’t round if Dean had told him different… they had experimented in other sexual positions.

But the older man just wasn’t strong enough to be on all fours on the bed beneath Sam, because they _both_ were worried about what might happen if he collapsed and brought the slave’s full weight down on his back. And Dean being the rider just wasn’t an option: learning to walk again was a painful enough struggle at the moment…

Although he _had_ wanted to at least _try_ …

Sam had watched his face carefully through deceptively innocently half-closed eyes, and at the first blink of pain on the older man’s face, had simply gathered Dean’s hips up in his large hands, picked the other man up and physically turned them both until his master was once again beneath him on the bed without missing a single thrust…

But that had given Dean _another_ idea. “Do you think you could hold me up, Sammy?”

“Hold you where, master?”

“Against the wall.”

Ever since then, it had been the _sex_ between them that left the young man’s brain short-circuited…

Every single time…

Just as it was now in the shower…

Sam wasn’t going to last long. Not when his master’s body was against his: it simply had that effect on him.

He was holding the older man tightly to him, one hand wrapped around his waist so he could support the other man’s torso while keeping his back pressed firmly against his own chest, all while still containing Dean’s cock in his other fist and thrusting into him with enough force to take his master up on the tips of his toes, and on more than one occasion completely off his feet.

And Dean was going to last even less long! His own hands were resting against the panelled wall of the shower more to steady himself rather than for support because he _trusted_ Sam not to let him fall… not that he really cared because all he could actually think at the moment was ‘yes, yes, _yes!_ ’

Which was how they ended up having to redo all of the actual _washing_ part of a shower in a hurry that morning, before eating their breakfast in the Impala as Sam drove them as fast as he dared to their destination, although he refused to break the speed limit like his bagel-munching master was subtly encouraging him to.

Dean had kept his promise to teach him to drive and had somehow fitted a lesson in most days besides all the rest they had to do. Although, to be fair, some had definitely gone better than others!

On one memorable occasion that his master still hadn’t ceased to tease him of at every opportunity, Sam had somewhat misjudged a bend one day and it had only been Dean’s lightning quick reaction in grabbing for the steering wheel _and_ the parking brake that had saved his Baby from going completely off the road into a ditch.

To Sam’s eternal shame, he had had a full-scale tantrum-like meltdown and refused to continue, eventually storming out of the driver’s seat and declaring that he was walking home. He had even begun to tramp back in the direction of Bobby’s house… but hadn’t got very far before he had gotten worried about leaving his master on his own in the Impala.

Reluctantly he had returned… only to find Dean still sitting calmly in the passenger’s seat, tapping his fingers against the dashboard to the rhythm of the playing tape-deck: “Ready to try again?”

“I’m never trying again!” Sam had shouted unfairly at him. “It’s useless. _I’m_ useless! I can’t do it! You’re wasting your time trying to teach me!”

“You’re doing fine.” And Dean had turned the music down, settled back in his seat and closed his eyes. “And I’m an invalid: _I_ can’t drive. So _you’ll_ have to get us home…”

“I _can’t_.”

“You can, Sam. Get in the car.” The deep calmness in the voice annoyed the younger man: he wanted to argue. He wanted to yell some more.

But, in the end, he had gotten back in the driver’s seat.

“Now,” His master hadn’t even opened his eyes. “Nice and calm. Go through your checks: seat position, mirrors… just like you have been doing. Forget that: it was just a blip…”

“What if it wasn’t? What if I can’t…?” Tears were threatening to run down Sam’s cheeks.

“You’re doing _fine_ , Sammy. Now. Deep breath. Start the car. And drive us back.”

And the young man had.

And now, in his wallet… for his incredible master had bought him a wallet and made sure that Sam always had at least _some_ money in it to carry with him for if he wanted a drink, or new books, or ‘just in case, Sammy’… was his most prized possession: his brand new driving licence.

They had all gone into town one day: the three of them. Sam had had his normal driving lesson that morning, lots of reversing and practice parking, and had been surprised after lunch when his master had announced that they had an appointment that afternoon. Bobby, to Sam’s almost disbelief, had climbed into the back of the Impala without any quibble at all that a slave was riding shotgun instead of him: the thought almost made him tearful and he had to blink more than a few times to not give away his intense emotion at being treated as just another member of their little family.

His disbelief _had_ shown itself though, when Dean had driven them straight to the DMV centre: “What are we doing here?”

Bobby patted him on the shoulder: “You’re taking your test. Off ya go, boy.”

“But…?”

“Slaves can’t have social security numbers.” Dean was producing pre-printed and official-looking forms from the glove compartment. “So I called in a few favours. You’ve now got legal paperwork… of a sort…

So…! Written test first: you’ll ace it! Com’n.”

Sam decided that he had never been so terrified in his whole life.

Or as proud when he passed.

Nor had Dean. “At least you’re legal, Sammy. More than I am…”

“What do you mean?”

The older man shrugged innocuously: “Dad made me my first fake licence when I was thirteen: I just alter the dates and picture every few years.”

Then both he and Bobby were trying not to laugh at the look of horror on the young man’s face.

Sam couldn’t help but grin at the memory. He was, as he had insisted on doing every week, just sitting quietly at the back of the room: at least they had managed to make it to their destination in time and he hadn’t had to follow up on his teasing threat to carry Dean in so he wouldn’t be late…

Not that he actually would have dared to. Sam might no longer be fearful that Dean might hurt him in retaliation for being so embarrassed… but… he might do something _far_ worse for revenge in the young man’s opinion…

He might withhold having sex for a week!

His master had offered, as _he_ had done every single time, for the slave to leave and pick him up later, or to do something else in the meantime, but the young man was, as always, quite content to wait with him while doing some of his own school work…

_School work!_

Sam couldn’t believe he was even saying it!

But he was at _school_.

Well, the nearest adult education college to be exact. Dean had disappeared for a while one day… as had the Impala much to Sam’s immediate concern. He was sitting behind the wheel of Bobby’s truck, trying to work out how to start the engine despite not having the keys, when his master had finally returned from wherever.

“Where have you _been?_ What if you’d fallen? I should have been _with_ you! Why did you leave me behind?!”

“Okay, Sammy. Take a breath! Can you grab the chair out of my Baby for me?”

“Of course.”

But that had been all the answer he had got for the moment.

He didn’t get one until later. Not until that evening when an unknown small, slim, neatly bearded man had turned up at Bobby’s, with a smile on his face and a briefcase.

The old man had seemed to be as surprised as Sam was: they had shared confused looks as Dean had smirked at them both. “I took your advice, Bobby. I went by the college earlier and spoke to the receptionist about what I need to do to finish my GED.

 _And_ …

I asked if Sam would be able to do it as well.”

“M…master…? I…?... _me_ …?...” Sam couldn’t quite comprehend the words…

But I’m a _slave._ ”

“Actually,” And the newcomer was joining in the conversation even as he was opening his case and pulling forth sheets of forms. “There’s no laws forbidding you from being educated: it’s more that most owners don’t want to waste money or time. Not all, of course: some of my best students have been slaves.

Hello, Sam.” And he was offering his hand to the now completely stunned young man. “I’m Principal Shurley. I heard Dean talking out in reception and I wanted to meet him. And now I’m here to meet _you_.”

He was already laying a stack of paperwork and a couple of cheap pens on the kitchen table in front of Sam. “Dean’s told me all about you: I’d like you to just work through these a moment. There’s no need to worry, it’s just to give me an idea of where you are education-wise. They’re mostly multiple-choice questions in a basic variety of subjects, and a short piece of literature to read through and answer questions about: no time limit.

Now, Mr Winchester… _Dean_.” As the other frowned at him, “I managed to contact the school you remember last being at: they still have your records. You were actually very close to finishing your qualification: it’s a crying shame that you weren’t allowed to… but, it shouldn’t take you long to do.

We have basic adult classes three mornings a week: Day English, Day Math, and Day Lab. And numerous ones in the evenings as well, if those aren’t convenient… As well as, of course, our regular curriculum…”

Dean’s smirk faded suddenly as he realised… Shit, he hadn’t been thinking at _all_. Eventually he forced himself to mumble into his lap, trying not to fidget in his wheelchair from embarrassment at his stupidity: “How much is it going to cost?”

He was surprised when the Principal gave him a beaming smile: “That’s the best bit! The policy at the moment is to encourage education, and… given your circumstances and your injuries… you should qualify for State Aid.

That’s _these_ forms!”

And he was shoving a wad of paperwork at least three times the thickness that he had given Sam into a stunned Dean’s hands.

“If you need help filling them in, just ask: they can be kinda tricky. How you doing there, Sam?”

“I…er, I…” The younger man was nervous about having the attention turned on him. He was grateful when Dean reached to cover his hand with his own, both of them intentionally ignoring how the Principal’s eyes immediately were drawn to the burnt flesh and missing finger, and hesitantly shuffled two pieces of paperwork back across the table. “That’s all I’ve managed to do so far, sir.”

The man’s eyebrows shot up: “I actually wouldn’t have been surprised if you hadn’t completed _any_ yet, Sam. But you carry on while I look though these...”

The room fell silent for a while, apart from the sound of frantic scribbling of Sam’s pen, the slight rustle of paper as Chuck took each next piece as it was offered to look over, and the comfortable slurping of mugs of good coffee.

And, despite his glib assurance at the start, the Principal was genuinely astounded that it didn’t take the young man long at _all_.

“Well, Sam.” He gathered all the tests up ready to place in a folder. “I must say I’m amazed. You’ve answered things that I didn’t expect you to, and gone into so much detail on the literature interpretation that you’d put some of my current students to shame. Dean said you haven’t actually been with him very long, but your previous owner must have had you educated extremely well…”

“No, Dean taught me.” “The boy didn’t know nowt when he came here. Dean started him readin’n’writin…”

Sam and Bobby both spoke at once.

Principal Shurley authoritatively held up his hand for silence: “Not all at once, please. Now…

 _How_ long has Sam been with you?” This was to Dean. “Are you _seriously_ telling me that he couldn’t read or write when he came here…?” He was _incredulous_.

“No _._ ” This time, it was in unison from all _three_ of the other men.

 “Sammy was desperate to learn. I just showed him the basics and let him get on with it.” Dean explained. “But he’s very clever,” he hurried to add. “It only took a few days, and then he was reading every single book in the place anyway…”

“My master’s an amazing teacher.” Sam put in. “He’s incredibly patient with me. He’s been brilliant. He’s taught me to read, and to write, and he’s teaching me to drive, and he lets me exercise and go running… on my _own_ … and he’s going to teach me to shoot, and I know he _will_ because he always keeps his promises, and he’s bought me a lot of educational stuff and I know he’d get me more if I asked him, and he’s come to you so I can… I can…. go to school…!

Can I really go to _school?_ ”

“In how long? How long have you been here?” Chuck was by now _really_ interested…

Bobby considered: “Sam’s been here about four months…ish.”

“Four months? _Seriously?_ ” The Principal was staring at them all open-mouthed: “Seriously, is that _all?_ ” His features suddenly turned serious and somewhat stern as his eyebrows furrowed together in thought: “Mmm…”

But he decided to have some more coffee. And began to ask _questions_.

About Sam’s previous existence and how horribly he had been treated by his previous masters?

About how _Dean_ had come to be his owner?

About the accident and the injuries that had put the green-eyed man into the wheelchair so that he had _needed_ a slave?

And about how he had taught Sam to read and write, and what aids, if any, he had used, and were there any other ways that he might have used if the first ones hadn’t worked, and, when Dean _had_ obviously thought about them, why hadn’t he used them, and how long every day had they spent in learning…?

“Okay. I think I’ve got everything.” The Principal gathered all the paperwork back into his case and got up to leave. “Just get those forms done, Dean, and we’ll get the both of you enrolled…” Sam couldn’t help a squeak of excitement. “… Just…” Chuck hesitated… “Just walk me out a minute…

Well…” He paused, eyed the wheelchair and corrected himself with a smile… “Come out with me anyway, Dean.”

The other had been surprised but led the way out to Chuck’s car, where the Principal had paused.

 “I’m just going to throw this out there… but… would you be interested in becoming one of our freelance tutors?”

Dean had just stared up at him and instantly shaken his head: “No. that’s ridiculous: _I’m_ not academic. I haven’t even got a basic qualification in case you’ve forgotten!”

“That’s precisely why I’m asking you.” The Principal leant against the hood of his car while he explained. “Like I said, the objective of our college is education. But not everyone has had a fair chance… you and Sam are _both_ prime examples of that….

Some people just rail against the system, and some just…” he paused while he tried to find the words to explain what he meant… “they just don’t learn the same way as everyone else, Dean. Perhaps they _can’t._

Either way: we have students on our patch who are desperate to learn but just can’t because their basic skills…. reading, writing, etc… just aren’t up to it. And we try to help them… that’s my _job_ after all… to try and help them to better themselves, but sometimes even _qualified_ teachers can’t get through to them.

Whether it’s because of their own abilities, or past experiences, or just needing that _connection_ with a tutor… whatever.” Chuck stared down at the man in the wheelchair thoughtfully. “If they want to come to my College and _try_ to learn, then I want to _help_ them.

We have a couple of freelancers already, but there’s something about you, Dean… And if you taught Sammy like that…

I’ve got a couple of students in mind who are really struggling. Not because of their course, but because of their reading ability and making themselves understood in words. They’re going to fail because our society had failed _them_.

I’d like you to meet them, Dean. See if you can help.

If you’re interested.”

“He’ll _do_ it!” Sam interrupted suddenly from where he had been standing listening just inside the door of the house, startling _both_ the other men. “He’ll be _amazing_ at it! Oh!”

What had he just been thinking? Eavesdropping on a private conversation, and then joining in without even being asked to? Dean should be really angry with him: any other master would severely punish him… but by now, Sam knew he was completely safe from anything like _that_. But it didn’t stop him from going red in the face as he realised he had probably just caused the older man embarrassment and hurried to apologise…

“I’m sorry, master: I didn’t mean to be so rude. But you’d be wonderful at it, _really_ you would! You were so patient with me. Please, _please_ say you will!”

“Do you really think I could, Sammy?” Dean was staring up at him hesitantly. “I don’t know…”

“I _know_ you can.” And the young man was sitting across his master’s lap without hesitation, already reaching  to cup his face with both his large hands so he could draw it in to his own for a lingering kiss. “You can do _anything_ , Dean.”

This was whispered with such a definite dirty emphasis on the word ‘anything’ that Chuck had coughed and decided it was probably time for him to leave.

Although he had called Dean on the phone first thing the next morning to ensure that his offer of working for the college was taken _seriously_.

Which… actually… with Sam’s ‘persuasion’… it _had_ been.

And which was why since that meeting, for a couple of mornings a week Sam would find himself sitting quietly at the back of a small classroom specifically put aside for individual or small group studies: working on the next assignment for his _own_ education while listening proudly to his incredible master tutoring.

And being _paid_ for it.

Principal Shurley had had Adam Milligan in mind when he had asked Dean about taking the job.

The young man had come from a difficult background. His father had been an absent one right from his birth, then his mother unfortunately had been killed in an accident when he was young, and without any known extended family to offer help, the boy had been left on his own to go through the care system, with the result that that he had been passed from foster parents to Children’s Homes and back again, seemingly at a moment’s notice, until being eventually and decisively spat out completely from all on his eighteenth birthday.

Adam had somehow managed to cope with all of this, and, determined to _try_ and make something of himself, had settled in Sioux Falls: taking a job in one of the local diners to pay for food and a room while he tried and failed to get into a mechanical engineering course at the College. Failed for the simple reason that his reading ability after a lifetime of enforced moving from one school to another was bad. And the legibility of his writing all but non-existent.

As the Principal had said, Adam just needed some help.

The Principal _wanted_ to help.

And as Chuck had suspected they would, the young man and Dean had got on like a _house_ on fire from the word ‘go’!

Adam had watched Dean wheel himself in to the small room that had been allocated to them, followed of course by the ever-protective Sam, with considerable surprise: this leather-jacketed, denim-legged man with the terrible burns and the smile-creased eyes didn’t look or act like any of his other teachers…. _ever_. He was even _more_ amazed when he had realised that his new tutor was _also_ a student who was trying to catch up his _own_ studies!

But he had listened. And concentrated. And made progress on the first morning. And, more importantly, had found himself looking forward to the next session.

And then he had turned up at Bobby’s house after two week with his just about completely illiterate best friend Jack, another reject from one of the care homes, and who was also desperate to get some education, but had thought, at the grand old age of nineteen, that the chance had already passed him by.

Dean had taken him to meet the Principal, who had offered the young man a proviso: work hard at getting his basic skills and then Chuck would help him sort out aid for lessons so he could at least get his certificate, and perhaps eventually even more...   

Which was how Dean had got his _second_ student to tutor… and, as it turned out, two eager helpers that arrived in Bobby’s yard most evenings, prompting the old man to tease his surrogate son about ‘being found by devoted long-lost little brothers’ and something else mumbled beneath his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘or perhaps _ducklings_ might be a better description’.

So.

For the past couple of months: every week, _twice_ a week, Dean would take Sam to basic education classes at the College… although he always tried to beg Dean to stay with him as he still wasn’t happy about being in a group of people, however small it was.

Every week, on one morning a week, Dean would go to his own refresher class to enable him to finally complete his GED, and always with his loyal six foot four shadow behind him to sit silently at the back of the room.

And every Tuesday and Thursday… Dean would go in to the College to _work_ as a tutor to an ever-increasing amount of young adults as well as more senior men and women who Chuck felt could benefit from his services.

He had proudly taken Bobby and Sam out for a celebratory meal with his first week’s paid invoice. At the end of the first month, he bought their new mattress.

But just at that moment Sam would quite happily have gone without either, because as the time of the boys’ lesson came nearer to the end, so did his own anxiety rise…

Because of the _afternoon’s_ tutorial…

And the student that would be arriving _then_ …

 _Seriously_. Sam _hated_ Tuesdays.

“Hello, Cher…” There it was: that damned Southern accent. Sam _hated_ that accent.

 _And_ he hated Benny.

Luckily, Dean was fully aware… not that Sam could ever manage to hide his jealousy of the deep-voiced Southerner very well. “Be with you in a minute, man.” Then he was reaching up from his wheelchair to grasp the top of Sam’s shirt and using it to pull the younger man’s face down to the level of his own: “You can trust me, Sammy,” he whispered. “He’s only here to get help to get his grades up to a passable standard for the evening catering class…

“I do trust you, master.” Sam whispered back. “It’s _him_ I don’t. The way he looks at you… he _wants_ you. “

“But _I_ don’t want _him_.” And his master was smirking up at Sam. “Believe me: I’ve not only _got_ everything I want, but you’re _everything_ I can handle… _Seriously_.

You _exhaust_ me, Sammy. And I wouldn’t change a _minute_ of it…” Dean’s words tailed off as he tugged the slave even closer to him, opening his mouth to allow the younger man access with his tongue… for which Sam took full advantage, trying to resist the temptation to show off in front of the intently watching Mr LaFitte.

Or not.

“You…er… you fancy wearing the collar tonight for me, master?” The green collar had somehow become for _Dean’s_ exclusive use… because he looked so fucking amazing wearing just it and _nothing_ else… and the slave could never resist any excuse to ask him to put it on…

Sam batted his eyelashes and looked with innocent, wide-open eyes at his master, who chuckled into his mouth, fully aware of _both_ intentions in the young man’s asking of that exactly at that moment… “For you… I’ll do _anything_ , Sammy. You _know_ I will…”

The young man pulled away slightly and licked his lips, knowing that the older man’s attention would automatically focus on them, and decided that… hell, _now_ would be as good a chance to ask as any… “I was wondering as well… would you ever consider… would it be alright if… sometimes… just once even… I attached a _leash_ to it, master…?”

Sam met Dean’s eyes straight on, loving how black with lust they had suddenly become… for _him_ … and him _only_. “Fuck…” the older man breathed: the words barely audible even though they were still close enough together for their faces to be nearly touching… “We better get this session over with and get _home_ …”

“I’ll be waiting at the back of the room.” And Sam kissed him once more, before standing up to finally move away… but not without sending a warning glare to the man watching them both so intently, that he had just drawn a metaphorical line that he would not _tolerate_ being crossed…

Benny just smiled back at him.

But by then… Sam just wanted to get _home_ as well.

 And ensure his master kept _that_ particular promise!


	16. And It Has Yet to be Written

It was a few nights later that Sam had stirred enough in his sleep to reach out and try and bring the smaller body of his master tight against his own where it belonged… only to sleepily open his eyes upon the realisation that Dean for some reason wasn’t in their bed…

Sam immediately missed him.

He lay awake a few minutes, expecting Dean to return from the bathroom… then frowned. He could hear muted voices from downstairs. At almost three a.m. in the morning?

Sam immediately was out from the covers and padding down the stairs in his bare feet, pausing as he got to the closed kitchen door. He knew he was family, and Bobby’s house was his home... He _knew_ that.

But.

Years of instinct made him wait at the door when he hadn’t been invited to join what was going on through it. And then his stomach was clenching with a sick feeling: what _was_ his master doing downstairs in the middle of the night? Why hadn’t he woken _Sam?_

He tried to contain his anxiety as he stood nervously but unashamedly listening to the conversation going on in the room…

Inside the kitchen, Dean was sitting at the small table as he studied the police report that Jodie had brought for them to look through: “So this has happened before?”

Bobby helped them all to another coffee as the sheriff explained. “Yes, but it wasn’t until tonight’s events that I made the connection.

The house is on the edge of town in Brandon, about an hour from here. It had been abandoned for over thirty years before the Atkinson’s did the renovations and moved in: that was about three years ago.”

“That’s the family that died last time? The Atkinson’s?” Dean had already read through the report enough to know the answer even as he asked. “But you thought it was an accident?”

“Yeah. Well, a terrible chain of events, anyway.” Jodie agreed. She began to pace the small room as she told them the story: “I mean, we got the nine-one-one call from the wife: she sounded hysterical. Said she’d found her husband dead in their bed. They were a young couple, only late twenties. Bought the house to be a family home: were working on the family part…

Anyway, when the paramedics got there, they found _her_ dead as well. It was assumed that she’d been so distraught after finding him that she’d fallen down the stairs and broken her neck. It was a terrible tragedy, but…”

“Nothing to suggest that there was anything else involved…” Bobby commented, even as he leant over Dean’s shoulder to look over the report once more. “… _then_.”

“Yeah.” Jodie agreed with a frown. “But then… _tonight_ …”

Dean handed the folder back over to the old man, and sat back in his chair to stare at the dark-haired woman: “So. Your words, Sheriff. What happened tonight?”

She sighed. And moved to sit on the hard wooden seat opposite. “My deputy called me to the house. The new family have been there just over a week. The father’s dead. Looks like he died in his sleep, just as Bartholomew Atkinson did.

But it wasn’t his wife who found him: it was his little girl. And she went screaming to her mom and nan that she had seen something standing over her dad with its hand on his chest.”

“Something?”

“She’s only five,” the Sheriff sighed. “I tried to get her to describe it, but her nan was getting her so wound up about being such a naughty girl and telling lies that I couldn’t get much beyond that it had black eyes…”

Both men took notice immediately: “Black eyes…? Like a demon…?”

But Jodie could only shrug: “Not sure.”

“Poor kid.” Dean commented. He hated children getting caught up with the world of monsters, especially young ones. He knew first-hand what it was like to grow up with that innocence lost. “Did they all get out of the house alright: no accidents on the stairs this time?”

“No. Luckily. She was so hysterical that her mother sensibly brought her right outside the house and away from the scene while they called for help: the nan… the dead man’s mother… who was staying with them while they got settled in had also worked herself into a state over the sudden death of her son. Understandably: he was her only child. The paramedics insisted she went to the hospital to be checked over and called us as a matter of course for an unexplained death.

I sealed the house off immediately I recognised the address, and I’ve left orders that no one is to go back in on their own for _any_ reason…”

“Good thinking.” Bobby agreed. “Where’s the family now?”

“I interviewed them all briefly at the hospital, but we’ve arranged a room at a local hotel. The nan actually wanted to return to the house to be with her son. Doesn’t think it’s respectful for his body to be just left there, but I told her he would be brought to the morgue as soon as possible…”

“You think she’ll go back?”

“I think she might try. She’s…” Jodie tried to keep the anger from her voice. “…extremely dismissive of her grand-daughter’s claims: just says the child’s got an over-active imagination. I’ve briefed one of my deputies on keep watch on them.

What I’m trying to say…” She sat back in the chair and looked at both of the men opposite. “Is that the sooner we can this sorted, the happier I’ll be. I really could do with your help.”

“You got it, Jodie.” “No problem, Sheriff. Give us a few minutes to suit up and we’ll meet you at the hotel. _Shit!”_

“What’s wrong, boy?”

“We’ll need a suit big enough for Sam to wear!”

“You can’t bring _him_ , boy!” The old man exclaimed. “God knows _what_ this thing is: he nearly got hurt the _last_ time!”

Outside the door, where he was still unashamedly listening to the conversation, Sam felt panic, anger and anxious all at once: he wasn’t going to be left behind, he _wasn’t_.

He already had hold of the door handle ready to go in and _tell_ them all so, when he heard his master’s response…

“One: I promised him I never _would_ leave him behind, Bobby. And two: _I_ certainly ain’t gonna tell him if I am! Are _you?_ You’ve seen how he can get! He’d kill the pair of us if we _tried!_ ”

“Too right I would!” And the young man was launching himself into the kitchen, startling everyone inside it, and immediately falling to his knees beside his master. “I’m going with you no matter what or where it is!”

Sam paused.

“ _Where_ are we going…?”

He wished he hadn’t asked a few hours later.

Nervously he ran his finger around the tight-fitting collar… of the brand new white shirt that he was wearing beneath an also brand new dark grey suit. “Stop fiddling with it!” Dean hissed at him.

“I can’t help it, master,” Sam complained in a whisper. “It’s uncomfortable! I’ve never worn anything like this before!”

“Will you two morons stop messing around!” Bobby snarled in a low grumble at them both, trying to ignore the tickle of his own slicked-down hair. “I can hear them coming: we’re supposed to be FBI agents!”

“I don’t think I can do this…” The young man felt sick: he was never going to pull this off, he was going to let his master down so badly. He should have stayed at Bobby’s…

But then Dean’s arm was tightening around his elbow and he was being pulled slightly into the smaller man’s body, enough to feel the solid supporting warmth all down his side, and there was a deep growl that seemed to settle smoothly into every single one of his bones… “You’ll be fine, Sammy. Just let me do the talking. Don’t call me master. And make sure you’re holding your ID badge the correct way up!”

“Yes, mas…”

But the hotel room door was opening.

Maggie Aguilera was a small dark-haired woman with a body that seemed to consist of nothing but voluptuous curves. In any other circumstance, Dean would have noticed her attractiveness at once… and probably flirted a little… but at the present moment, the lady’s naturally dark complexion had been paled by shock, and the glistening deep brown eyes were reddened by tears. “Can I help you?”

“Mrs Aguilera?” Dean had released Sam’s arm and was already holding his ‘FBI’ badge out for inspection: the young man bit his lip and nervously hurried to do so as well. “I’m Special Agent Page, this is my partner, Agent Plant,” as he indicated Bobby, who only just managed to resist the urge to sneer back at him, “and this is Agent-in-training Bonham.”

Sam took a deep breath and held out his brand-new, literally two hours old, badge. Despite herself the woman smiled a little and made a small circling motion with her index finger.

The slave stared at her in near terror. Dean glanced at his slightly shaking out-stretched arm, followed the length down to the tight grip around the upside-down ID badge, sighed, and reached himself to turn it round in Sam’s hand. “Like I said,” he smiled easily down at the lady, “he’s in training. We’ve all had to start somewhere…”

“Of course.” And the young man was staring as, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, his slight slip seemed to help the woman to relax a little. Her smile, although sad, increased even as she moved to let them past her into the hotel suite. “My daughter has finally fallen asleep in hers and my bedroom, but we can talk in here. I’m assuming you’ve come about Nicolas: it seems unreal. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and…”

The dark eyes filled with tears suddenly. “How could he be dead? He went to the gym every other day, and ran miles on the others. I don’t understand…”

“Neither do the local police, ma’am.” Dean was already encouraging her to sit beside him on the small two-seater couch, their knees almost touching, while he indicated for Sam to take one of the small matching padded chairs also in the room while Bobby took the other. The young man obeyed, instinctively trying to fold himself into a less noticeable size so as not to distract his master at work, and trying even _harder_ to keep his fingers from fiddling with the distracting shirt collar.

Jesus, it was _far_ worse than the flesh-coloured slave band that he had on beneath: he would never complain about any of those again…

 _Ever_.

He tried to make himself concentrate on what Dean was saying. “That’s why they’ve asked us to come and talk to you, Mrs Aguilera. Can you tell us about the events up to your husband’s death? I know you’ve been through it before, probably a few times already, but could you go through it again with us… please?”

His smile was breath-taking and genuine: the green eyes focused on the bereaved woman only. Sam bit inside his bottom lip and tried to tell himself that it was not the time to be jealous… although he was: he really _was_.

But the woman was also nibbling nervously at her lip, the liquid in her eyes threatening to overspill, and then she was telling the ‘agents’ all that had happened the previous night.

Not that she could tell them much.

“It was about eleven p.m. Nicolas had gone on to bed: he’s a nurse at the hospital so he has long shifts, and he likes to go for a run in the mornings before he starts so he had set the alarm for five in the morning…

I mean… he _was_ a nurse…”

She paused as the tears slowly began to trickle down her cheeks, one and then another. Dean smiled sympathetically at her and, to Sam’s surprise, produced a packet of paper tissues from somewhere in his jacket pocket. She took them from him with her own slight smile and continued:

“Regina and I… that’s my mother-in-law, Nicolas’s mother: we only moved in last week, she’s been looking after Isabel while I unpack… we were just finishing our hot chocolates ready to also turn in for the night, when suddenly we heard Isabel… that’s my daughter… screaming.

We ran upstairs, and she was in her pyjamas, standing in our bedroom, _screaming_ at….” Here the woman’s words stuttered to a halt suddenly before continuing: “She was looking at… nothing. But _something_. Something on the other side of our bed.

But _in_ the bed was Nicolas, and…”

She began to sob into her hands. With Dean rubbing her shoulder and, to all intents and purposes, trying to comfort her. But Sam watched as his master’s sharp eyes were already looking around the room, indicating where the bereaved woman had brought in what had probably been a hastily packed wheel-along suitcase and a couple of other small bags with a slight nod to Bobby, who surreptitiously eased himself up from the small chair and began to check them with a small handheld device that had small strange red lights on it.

The slave wanted to ask. But knew not to. Not until later.

Not even when one light momentarily flashed green as it was held close to the lady’s belongings. The old man glanced back at Dean, who met his eyes but silently and returned his attention to Mrs Aguilera. “So… could Isabel describe what she saw to you at all?”

“The child did not see _anything!_ ”

They were all startled by another woman who was older and taller than Mrs Aguilera with greying hair, as she emerged loudly from the second bedroom. “Regina, I…” Maggie began, but her mother-in-law was already talking loudly over her.

“She has always had an over-active imagination. I told her you were spoiling her: humouring her in her games, telling her she’s creative, that she’s going to be a famous writer some day! Even now, the child is telling stories! Even _now!_ ”

“She’s  _five_ for goodness sake!” Maggie snapped: her motherly instinct reacting immediately to defend her child. “And she’s just lost her father: she’s _allowed_ to be upset by what she saw…”

“That’s just it!” The older woman all but screamed at her. “There _was_ nothing for her to see! My son… my poor boy was lying _dead_ in that bed, and there was _nothing_ else there, so why is she saying there was? Making up tales! Getting your attention! All that matters is my poor Nicolas…”

“Let’s just calm this situation down, ladies.” Bobby was approaching Regina, trying to stop her near-hysteria, while Dean was also on his feet besides the irate younger woman. “It must have been such a shock to all of you: I’m so sorry for your loss...”

“Mama?”

All the adults turned as one to see the dark-haired little girl, dressed in pink unicorn pyjamas, blearily blinking at them from the now open doorway of the first bedroom. “Who are they?”

“Oh baby.” And Maggie was across the room and sweeping her daughter up into a huge hug before anyone else had moved. “We didn’t mean to wake you: I’m sorry. We’re all just a little tired and upset. Are you hungry?”

“Upset? I’m more than upset!” But this time her daughter-in-law had far someone far more important to focus her attention on than the distraught Regina, and ignored her completely. It was left to Bobby to talk calmly to the mature lady, which he did, moving to distract her from her new tirade with an offer to sit down and tell him all about her beloved only son…

Dean in the meantime was already approaching the child with a genuine smile. Sam hastily followed his master across the room, hoping that he wasn’t going to get in the way by doing so.

“Hello, Isabel. It is Isabel, isn’t it?”

She stared across at him from the safety of her mother’s arms, and nodded shyly.

“I’m Agent  Page. I’m trying to work out what happened in your house last night. Can you talk to me about what you remember? Your mama will be right there with you…”

She remained silent.

He glanced behind her, through the open door of the bedroom, and saw the large fluffy, floppy toy dog with oversized dangly ears still slightly beneath the covers where she had abandoned it upon hearing the raised voices from the main room: “Aw, _he’s_ cute! Does he have a name?”

And Dean was moving to pick the cuddly stuffed animal up, hugging it as carefully to him as he would have done if it had been alive. Isabel tracked him hastily, twisting bodily in Maggie’s arms to see what the green eyed man with the friendly smile was doing… “She’s a _she!_ Her name’s Bonita!”

Then she was giggling despite herself as Bonita was suddenly being made to dance through the air to her, and then away before she could grab for her toy, and then back…

Once she had finally got her beloved toy in her arms and was hugging it as tightly to her chest as she herself was being held, Dean asked quietly again: “Do you think Bonita would come and sit with me and tell me about last night…?”

This time Isabel smiled and nodded…

One hour later, the three men were on their way to the deceased man’s house to see what was going on for themselves. Bobby and Dean were discussing what details they had each managed to glean from their visit to the Aguilera family, while Sam was just sitting in the passenger seat half-listening…

… and half just staring with unashamed hero worship at his master.

Even more so than the little _girl_ had!

She had giggled and laughed as she relaxed, and had eventually told Dean with as much detail as she could what she had seen: there had been a strange man standing over her father… who, luckily, she didn’t quite understand what the word ‘dead’ meant… as he lay asleep on the bed.

The man had looked like a Zombie from a recent episode of Scooby-Doo that she had seen: he had been tall and gaunt, with a thin, almost white face and dark eyes, dressed in a pale old-fashioned grey shirt and dungarees.

“When you say, dark eyes?” Dean had asked her. “Do you mean they were deep brown, like yours and your mom’s?”

“No,” she had whispered back. “He didn’t seem to _have_ eyes. There were just big dark holes, but then he had seemed to stare at me and smiled… and he frightened me. I wanted dada to wake up and tell him to go away, but he just lay there with the nasty man’s fingers on his chest…”

“Were his fingers moving? Or was his hand still?”

“Still.” She was certain. “But they were bright, as if little flashlights were at the end of each of his fingers. And he was making dada glow as well…”

“Okay.” Dean had nodded with exaggerated seriousness, causing her eyes to go wide with excitement that somebody actually _believed_ her. “We’re… my two partners and I… we’re going to sort this out. What I want _you_ to do, is to stay here and look after your mama. And your nan. Can you do that for me? Keep them safe?”

“I’ll try.” She had promised him solemnly, lips pouting with her earnestness. “Can you tell dada where we are? He was sleeping so soundly last night, he didn’t come with us…”

Looking at him from the passenger seat of the Impala, Sam could also see how _determined_ his master was. Dean’s jaw was set tight: he was going to stop whatever this was. No matter what it took.

“What do you think it is?” He tentatively asked, hoping that he hadn’t missed the answer previously in the other’s discussion.

“Pretty sure it’s a ghost.” Bobby answered him. “While Dean was sorting your ID out this morning, I was researching the history of the house.  Fifty years or so ago, it was right out of town: Brandon has spread out a lot since then. It was owned by a Mr Jackson.

He came home early one night and caught his wife with another man. He killed them both and then himself. He worked as a hand on one of the local farms, so the clothes sound right from what the little girl said…”

“There was definitely a trace of EMF energy around Maggie’s bags.” Dean took up the conversation. “Probably on her things from the bedroom. And all the men were killed in their bed…”

“All…?” Sam hesitated to ask. “ _All_ the men…? Not both?”

The old man shrugged: “Like I said, I did some research. There was one more owner since the Jackson’s, nearly ten years after. They didn’t care about the history: the state of it made an affordable roof above their family’s head. The couple were both found dead in their bed by their eldest son. The renovations were shoddy and done on the cheap: a faulty gas main was blamed. The house was all but abandoned after that.”

“So, what do we do now? How do we stop it?” Despite himself, Sam felt his hand creep across the front seat towards his master for reassurance… and the relief he felt when Dean simply covered his fingers with his own and squeezed them tight was immense.

“You can stay out of the way if you want, Sammy. This ain’t for everyone. And I’d be a lot happier knowing you were safe…”

“My place is by your side, master.” The response was immediate. And sure, although Sam couldn’t quite hide how nervous he truly was. “I’d feel safer with you, and I’d only worry if I weren’t, anyway. What if you needed me?”

“I need _you_ to be safe, Sam.” There was a catch in the older man’s voice that the slave couldn’t quite place, but he was equally determined.

“I’ve already told you, Dean: I belong beside you. So don’t even think about telling me to go away because I _won’t._ ”

There was a long silence in the car.

Dean finally broke it. “Okay, Sammy. But you stay tight by me unless I tell you different, and then you obey exactly. That’s important, Sam. This thing kills: it’s killed more than once. There’s a time _not_ to be stubborn and this is it.”

Bobby muttered something from the back of the Impala about ‘pots’ and kettles’, but both the other men united to ignore him. And then they were drawing up at the scene of the unexplained deaths.

Jodie was already at the house with one of her deputies so, to Sam’s tremendous relief, they didn’t even have to show their badges again. He had been nervous when he had realised what Dean was doing, sat at Bobby’s kitchen table with the set of small passport booth photographs that he had insisted Sam have taken immediately they had bought his suit, some tweezers and a bottle of adhesive: he never thought they would get away with it.

He never thought _he_ would get away with it.

Sam followed his master and Bobby as the sheriff led them all up to the master bedroom, trying to act as Dean had told him to: “Stand tall and proud, but not arrogant, Sammy. That just gets people’s back up. You’ve got to make them think you’re the _authority_ in the room: it’s all about acting confident…

And bluffing like _hell_.”

“I don’t think I can, master…”

“Well, you’ll just have to wait out in the car then.”

No fucking _way_ was Sam doing _that!_

But he was seriously relieved that the body had already been moved to the morgue.

As soon as they were all in the bedroom and the door was shut behind them, Jodie was hugging Dean hard enough to make him fear for his ribs: “It’s good to see ya up and about on your feet, boy: it truly is. I knew ya could do it… I _knew!_ ”

“Thanks, Sheriff,” He muttered with uncharacteristic shyness. “I can manage for a while now, but the chairs still outside in the car in case…”

“But you’re getting there, Dean. And I hear you’re doing good things: even got a _job_. I’m so _proud_ of ya, boy.”

Dean blushed even harder and seemed to be tongue-tied. Sam so wanted to kiss him but thought that that might just make his master even redder in the face. They were both relieved by the distraction of Bobby beginning to move around the room with the strange handheld device again… which this time, lit up all its lights immediately.

“So… what is that thing?” Sam finally was able to ask, even as his hand crept surreptitiously into Dean’s.

“It’s an EMF detector,” It was Jodie who replied. “I’ve already gone around the whole house: there’s definitely a ghost here. This room’s the worst, but mine lights up all down the stairs and on the ground floor as well. Y’all think it’s this Mr Jackson?”

“As good a hypothesis as any.” Dean stated. “Do we know anything more about him and the murders? Or even better… where he’s buried?”

“No, no and… er… no.” The sheriff informed him with a smirk. “That’s _your_ department! I’m just gonna concentrate on keeping everyone, especially the family, out of here!”

“Great.” Dean muttered. “Sammy? How’d’ya fancy learning how to do research?”

Actually, Sam found he really _enjoyed_ it.

Bobby had volunteered to go to the morgue, to Sam’s first-of-all response of laughing with disbelief, and then staring with horror as he realised that it _wasn’t_ a sick joke and that the old man was _really_ going to look at a dead body.

“We’ve had to dissect them ourselves on his kitchen table before now,” Dean tipped himself up on his toes to be able to whisper in the younger man’s ear. “You should hear him grumble when his cupboards get spattered…”

Then he was chuckling as Bobby sighed at the look _now_ on Sam’s face and deliberately shoved past Dean to get back in the car: “Friggin’ _idgit!_ ”

He had dropped the two younger men off at the town library. “Com’on, Sammy. It closes at four on Saturdays: we’ve got until then to sort this out!”

Which was how the slave found himself sitting at a computer screen in a small open booth in a long row of small open booths containing PC’s, and being surrounded by rows and rows of books, looking up old news reports, and obituaries, and ‘anything else you can think of, Sammy. _Anything_.’

He blinked and looked around the large room. Dean was just behind him at a table, looking through a pile of books that he kept asking the librarian about, having flashed his ID badge to ensure they got priority assistance. At least it was fairly quiet in there: there were a few other people also sitting looking at the screens, and some quietly sitting studying, or making notes, or just reading, or…

Sam’s attention was caught by three teenage girls who were sitting at one of the tables to the side and front of him. He could have sworn that they had only just been sitting at the table just to the side and _rear_ of him. His eyes opened wide and his eyebrows all but disappeared into his bangs as he realised that… they were ogling _him!_ Not only that, but they were puckering their lips and blowing kisses... and doing the teenage version of trying to give pouting, seductive, lustful looks that only succeeded in making each of them look extremely constipated.

The slave didn’t know what to do momentarily: instinctively he reached to touch his master… then realised that he was still dressed in the suit and was meant to be acting like a bad-ass FBI agent.

He settled for forcing his hands back to the keyboard until Dean returned to sit beside him again. Only then could he instead reach to press his long legs against the other man’s, immediately feeling better when his master absently slid his hand beneath the table to rest on Sam’s thigh…

He didn’t want to look at the girls again. And Dean seemed to be engrossed momentarily in flicking through the tabs on the screen so he tried to concentrate on _that_ , despite really not being sure what his master was looking for…

Then, to his sudden panic, Dean was up _again_ off his seat and moving to ask the librarian for assistance to find what would probably turn out to be yet another old volume of public records. He had gathered quite a collection of them already. Sam idly watched her as she pointed out where his master should be looking this time… then the slave’s eyes were opening even wider as he realised exactly where _she_ was looking!

The librarian, who now Sam came to really study her could see was a stunning brunette with hazel eyes behind those glasses, was fixated on Dean’s ass as he moved across the room. As were the eyes of quite a few other people sitting around them: women _and_ men. The young man tried to contain a growl: really, it wasn’t fair. How could his master look so fucking _good_ in that suit?

And how long before Sam could rip it off of him again?

“Here!” The slave started as Dean dropped a huge book on the table as well. It wasn’t the records that Sam expected: it was of old editions of the local newspaper this time. “Leave that for the minute: they can only digitize a certain amount. The rest you’ve gotta look for the old way.”

Sam hurried to join him, trying to ignore the moans of the girls as the act of standing-up caused more of his perfectly toned, smart-suited self to be revealed.

“What _are_ we looking for?”

Dean shrugged disarmingly at him: “No idea!”

They were still poring over the pages when Bobby finally returned from the morgue. “His heart was just about exploded inside his chest. I asked the coroner to look up the autopsy results of Bartholomew Atkinson…”

“The same?” Dean didn’t really have to ask: one look at the other’s face had been enough to tell him.

The old man nodded: “Close enough. What’ve _you_ got?”

It was Sam who eagerly responded. “We’ve read the obituaries, but there’s not much we didn’t already know. Jackson killed the boyfriend first, in the bed as you suspected. His wife was trying to escape… or at least, she was found at the bottom of the stairs. She fell. Or was pushed down them to break her neck. Just like what happened to Mrs Atkinson. Then he blew his own brains out.”

“Do we know where he was buried?”

 _Dean_ had been insistent on finding that out as well: the young man didn’t quite understand the significance but he had been determined he was going to find the answer because it seemed to matter. “He wasn’t. He was cremated. It was felt that he shouldn’t be allowed to be buried in the local churchyard.” He watched as Bobby reacted in the same way that his master had: “Why is that so important?”

“Because it’s not just a simple case of burning the bones,” Dean sighed. “There must be something _else_ tying him to that house: something that we have to find and destroy.”

“Something like what?” The young man asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine, Sammy.” His master shrugged. “It’s usually something personal: something they owned that really meant something to them. Or else, it’s literally a part of them: lock of hair, spatters of their blood as they died. Could be _anything_.”

 “If it’s his blood, then it’ll be soaked into the floorboards where he died. The only way to get rid of that will be to torch the place,” Bobby pondered. “But if it’s something personal, then it must be something small and hidden: it’s got to have survived all the years the house has been neglected, _and_ the refurbishment that the Atkinson’s did. I bet they would have thrown a lot of junk _out_.”

 “He was found outside.” Dean told him. “He’d walked out of the house: they think it was delayed shock for what he had just done. He killed himself there.”

Bobby gaped at both the younger men: “Then how in tarnation are we going to deal with _that?_ And surely, he’d be trapped _outside_ the house…?”

“Yeah, I think so as well.” The green eyes glinted, deep in thought. “So, it’s something of his still in the house…”

“Wait!” Sam gasped suddenly as something in one of the numerous newspaper reports flicked at his brain. “ _Wait!_ The _ring!_ ”

“That was his wife’s, though.” “What ring?”

Both the others had spoken at once, but it was Dean who continued in explanation to Bobby: “One of the articles mentioned that there was something of a ruckus at the inquest, because Mrs Jackson’s gold wedding ring was missing. But that would have been _her_ … I mean the murdered _woman’s_ ring, not anything to keep _him_ here...”

“No, but apparently it was an heirloom passed down _his_ family!” Sam was almost leaping from his chair in his excitement as he tried to find the relevant article he had seen and all but dismissed in the large folder of old newspapers: “It was his sister that caused the scene: she all but accused the police of stealing it! Mrs Jackson wasn’t wearing it when her body was found, nor was it by the bedside or in her jewellery box...”

“It was _his_ family’s ring?” Bobby was listening intently. He glanced across the table at Dean: “Do you think that could be it…?”

Dean threw his hands up in a wide shrug: “As good as anything else we’ve got. Did that article name his sister at all, Sammy? Any chance she’s still alive? And local?”

It did give her name. Bobby had by this time commandeered the computer they’d been using, so Dean went to ask the librarian if there was a local telephone directory that he could borrow momentarily.

Sam watched as his master leant against her desk while he was flicking through the thick book… and the brunette was subconsciously leaning towards _him_ : pushing her breasts together with her arms to emphasise their appeal, sucking absently at the end of her pen…

Bobby startled as he heard a sudden noise: for a moment it sounded like teeth being ground together… and for a longer moment, he could have sworn it had come from _Sam!_

Then Dean was bounding back across the room toward them with an address and number written on a piece of paper: “There’s a lady by that name lives across town: we can try it. Bobby, you want to make the call while we clear up here?”

The old man was already reaching for his cell as he went out. Sam hurried to put the small stack of books away while Dean logged them out of the computer and went to return the large volume of old newspapers: “Thanks, Rosie.”

Sam’s jaw clenched even harder: how had his master managed to get on first name terms with the librarian in such a short time? Without realising it, his nostrils flared and he squared his shoulders ready to go and physically drag Dean away if he had to…

But then the older man was standing right in front of him, and looking up into Sam’s eyes. “We got everything?”

“Uh huh.”

“Okay. Let’s leave your fan club something to remember!” And with that he was reaching up with his right hand to pull the younger man’s face down to his… and joining them together by the lips.

“Mrgh! Mmm…” Sam’s surprise was instantly turning to aroused pleasure… and if he was aware of the sudden _total_ silence in the library then he really didn’t care. In fact he forgot everything except for the kiss, and was disappointed when his master finally moved to break it.

The green eyes twinkled mischievously up into his even as Dean rested his hand against Sam’s chest: “I bet those girls of yours have all got their tongues hanging out now… Com’on.”

And he was catching at the younger man’s hand with his own and leading him out. Sam couldn’t help but glance back, trying to resist his own smirk as he saw the wide-open mouths of… just about everybody in the room.

And the brunette had bitten the end off her pen.

He hurried to follow his master down the steps of the library where Bobby was waiting impatiently beside the Impala: “It _is_ her! Get in!”

“Dean?” Sam couldn’t help but ask even as he went to open the car door. “Thanks for warning off that librarian as well: I didn’t like how she was looking at you, either.”

The green eyes stared up at him with genuine wide-open innocence: “What librarian?”

This time it was Sam’s mouth that was falling open with surprise.

Roberta Jackson was over seventy years old and as feisty as they come. She barked orders at the three men to ‘com’on in and stop letting all the heat out: do ya want me to catch my death?’, ‘what’cha want to come bothering me for?’, and ‘well, while you’re here, y’all can make yourselves useful’.

Sam glanced nervously at Bobby, and the old man winked at him: “Watch.”

Then his master was settling himself on the couch beside the woman and flirting outrageously with her. Sam watched incredulously as, within just a few minutes, Ms Jackson’s manner changed from being as prickly as a cactus to being as cuddly as a chipmunk.

“Dean’ll tell you that it was his dad who got the Winchester’s the reputation of being the best god-damned Hunters in the country.” Bobby inched himself closer on the small lonely chair that he had rescued from the corner of the room to perch on, so he could whisper in the young man’s ear. “But the rest of us’ll tell you that you’re _looking_ at the best Hunter there ever was.

All John did was train him. _He_ knew he’d be lost without Dean by his side. Why he couldn’t treat the boy as a partner and not as a detested lackey I’ll _never_ know…”

With a sigh he fell silent. Sam watched the old man as he returned his attention to his much-loved surrogate son, his eyes momentarily glinting with tears but his face giving away his intense pride as he looked at Dean…

Then they were leaning forward to listen as the elderly lady was talking about her brother: “Gawd, Robby loved that bitch.”

“Robby?”

The woman snorted and patted Dean on the knee, not bothering to remove her hand after. “Yeah, would you credit it: He was Robert, known as Robby. I was Ro- _bert_ -a. Family name: load of shite. No imagination. Can you imagine growing up with a lifetime of _that?_ ”

The hand tightened. Dean lowered his face but raised his eyebrows, smiling at her through his lashes.

“Oh… those eyes, boy. If I was even _thirty_ years younger…!”

“I bet you were a tiger in the sack _,_ ma’am. But you were telling me about Robby…?”

“Oh… Yes.” Her expression turned sad as she remembered her lost but obviously much-loved older brother. “Yes. Well… He loved her so much. Gave her anything she wanted: nearly killed himself, working all hours to pay for it.

Casey wanted: Casey _got._ ”

“Can you tell me about this ring, ma’am? It says in the records that you were very upset that it was missing…”

“Oh…” Roberta sighed… a deep sigh. “It was passed down… it don’t look much, but it means… _everything_. It was our mom’s, and her mom’s, my nan’s I mean, and _her_ mom’s before that.

It’s just a simple band of gold on the outside, but I remember Robby had it engraved around the inside when he married _her_ : ‘ _I give you my soul: for now, forever, for always_.’” There were tears in her eyes now: “Poor Robby. It must have hurt him so much, finding that bitch with someone else in _their_ bed.”

Dean put his hand around the lady’s shoulders and pulled her closer to him. Bobby and Sam stared at individual corners of the room respectfully as Roberta’s body shook with sobs for a few minutes. Finally she’d recovered herself enough to straighten up and accept the paper tissue that Dean was offering her.

“I’m sorry. It’s all so long ago, but it seems like yesterday. He was my big brother, my _only_ brother, and all I had. He had Casey and he loved her with all his heart and soul, so I tried to love her as well, but _I_ could see what a manipulative bitch she was.”

The old, sad eyes looked beseechingly around at all the men, trying to get them to understand. “He was never a bad man: I’d never known him hurt _anything_ before that night. I can only _imagine_ how he felt when he walked into his own house and found…”

“We get it, ma’am.”

There was a silence while they waited for the old lady to dab her eyes and blow her nose. Dean made a slight motion with his head towards Bobby who understood and got up from his seat: “Can I get you some water, ma’am? Or something else to drink?”

“A cup of tea please, young man. Thank you.” Dean and Sam couldn’t help themselves from smirking as Bobby’s eyebrows rose from being referred to like _that_. Especially when Roberta stared after him once he had left the room and added wistfully: “Hell, if I was even just _twenty_ years younger…”

“You never married then, ma’am?” Dean tried to cover his desperation to burst into laughter. “No family of your own?”

“No.” Her smile had disappeared once more. “I was due to: two months after this all happened. But nobody wants to marry the sister of a murderer…”

“I’m sorry.”  Dean sincerely meant his words. The old woman smiled at him.

“It was a long time ago, child. What about you? Have you got anyone?”

The question took the green-eyed man by surprise: “Uh… um… Well, we’re not here to discuss _me_ , ma’am, but… yes. Yes, there is someone…”

Despite himself, he couldn’t help the glance across the small room to where Sam was sat.

Despite himself, the young man couldn’t help from smiling in response, his eyes glinting with threatened tears from the lady’s story.

Roberta Jackson may have been seventy something years old, but she still was sharp enough to follow Dean’s eyes. “Oh. _Oh_. He’s definitely good-looking. Nearly as handsome as _you_. And he loves you back?”

She cackled as both the young men blushed, but it was a friendly sound. “Just… look after each other. And make the most of being young and alive while you can, because… well, you never know…”

Luckily Bobby returned at the moment with a loaded tray that he placed on the small table beside where the lady was sitting, raising his eyebrows at the flushed faces on both Dean _and_ Sam and giving the former a pointed look.

Dean hastily got back in control of himself, straightening his tie and trying not to look over at Sam again. “So, ma’am. Back to your family’s ring. You thought the police or somebody had stolen it?”

She took a sip of her tea: Dean resisted the urge to help her steady the slightly shaking cup. “Perfect.”

Bobby nodded at her thanks with a smile.

“Daniel Fisher called me. He was one of the deputy’s in the local department and a good friend. I always wondered if he was a little sweet on me but… well. There was a robbery the next year at the local bank and Danny was first on the scene… The man came out shooting…

Anyway,” Tears were again threatening in the wrinkle-lined eyes. “That’s by the by. Danny called me about what had happened at the house. I rushed round there. Robby was outside all covered with a blanket: they wouldn’t let me see because of how he’d…” She paused and took a deep breath.

“He’d used a shot gun. Blown most of the top of his head off.

But they let me into the house and I saw _Casey’s_ body. She was lying at the bottom of the stairs in a crumpled heap, her left hand flung out and seemingly undamaged except for the ring finger. That was dangling at a strange angle as if it had been dislocated, and her wedding ring wasn’t _on_ it.”

“It could have fallen off in the fall. Or she could have taken it off when she…” Sam let his words tail off, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

But the woman was shaking her head vigorously. “It couldn’t have! Only the week before, she’s been moaning about how she’d put on weight recently… well, she never _did_ anything… and she couldn’t get the ring off even to have a bath! We tried that day with soap solution, she was so determined we even used her really expensive rose-scented _luxury_ soap: it _wouldn’t_ come off!

It had to have been ripped off her finger! And Robby didn’t have it in his pockets, so…”

“Did Danny tell you anything else?” Dean asked. “He shouldn’t have called you to the scene. He certainly shouldn’t have let you _see_ all that, but… Did he tell you anything else? Or did you go upstairs at all?”

“Oh, no.” Roberta shuddered. “I didn’t want to go and see… _that_. But yes, the next day Danny told me that there was blood on the doorframe at about Casey’s head height that could not have come from the body on the bed, and that she had matching slivers of paint from the frame in injuries on her head.”

“Okay.” Sam kept quiet as he noticed Bobby and his master share a glance: his own thoughts were whirling around his head.

“Is there anything you can tell us, ma’am? Anything at all about what happened that night?”

There wasn’t. But the lady caught at Dean’s sleeve as he was about to leave: “This is about the house, isn’t it? I heard there’s been another strange death…

It’s not Robby!

Not really.

It’s what she _drove_ him to be.”

“I know, ma’am.” He genuinely did, and nodded sadly at her: accepting the sudden hug without complaint and returning it sincerely.

“Is he good in bed?” She whispered.

Dean blushed yet _again_ but couldn’t help his eyes from twinkling at her: “ _Behave_ yourself, ma’am.”

“Only if you promise _not_ to!” And with that, she was cackling once more as she closed the door behind him.

Dean could only stand and shake his head momentarily: “Crazy old brawd.” But the grin remained fixed on his face all the way back to the nearest diner.

They had left the subject alone while they ate: it had been a long day from an extremely early start and all three of them were ready for a break.

“So,” Sam finally sat back from his empty plate: he had been surprised about how hungry he had actually been. He sipped at his drink while he waited for the other men to finish their own meals. “So, what do we do now? Try and find some other witnesses? Ask them if they know what happened to the ring?”

“We _know_ what happened to it, boy.” Bobby told him. “Or, at least, we can make a damn good guess!”

Sam stared at him and waited.

And waited.

“So… what do we do _now?_ ” He finally gave in.

Dean finished his last mouthful of gammon and eggs, and smirked at him. “We find somewhere we can change out of these suits, and go back to the house and find that ring.”

“You think it’s at the house?”

“It would make sense,” Bobby pointed out. “Jackson came home, heard or found his wife upstairs in the bed with her other man. He beat the man to death: his wife tried to run out of the room, he grabbed her and either banged her head against the doorframe or she hit it herself against the frame… either way, they probably struggled…”

“At some point he noticed the ring on her finger…” Dean put in. “I believe Ms Jackson with her story about her sister-in-law not being able to get it off: you remember those autopsy reports Bobby brought that we were looking through?”

“Ye-es,” Sam frowned.

“Casey Jackson’s left hand.” Dean quoted as if from memory after just one reading of the report. “Mostly uninjured in the fall except for a severe dislocation to the ring finger. The fingers of both hands show well-established symptoms of rheumatoid arthritis. There looks to have been a permanent ring, presumably a wedding ring, worn on the finger: there is a definite deep impression in the skin that would have resulted from the painful swelling caused by the condition. There is no ring of any description present with her belongings.”

The young man stared at him incredulously: he had read the reports himself, but…

“It’s practice, Sammy. Believe me: I’ve had _years_ of practice.”  His master smiled at him and nudged at Sam’s leg below the table with his own. The younger man immediately moved to catch it between both of his own and tightened his thighs to hold Dean there. “But it looks like the ring was physically torn from her finger and…”

“… and it would make sense that it would have been her _husband_ , during their struggle.” Bobby finished. “He would have seen the ring. It would have probably felt like it was there deliberately to mock him, his much-adored wife wearing it in bed with her lover because she couldn’t get it off…”

“He snatched it off her hand, either still in the bedroom, or at the top of the stairs before she fell, or from her at the base of the stairs after she had fallen…”

“But it wasn’t found in his pockets…?” Sam still was slowly working out in his mind. “So he didn’t put it safe in his pockets…”

Both the others finished their now lukewarm drinks as they waited for him to perhaps come to the same conclusion that they had.

“He threw it.” Sam realised. “He was so angry at her that he threw it… somewhere. My previous owners were always doing that: throwing things around in a temper. Throwing things at _us_ in their temper.”

Bobby pushed back his seat and began to look for his wallet ready to pay the bill: “I’d wager my entire stash of whisky,” with a glance at Dean, “or at least, what’s _left_ of it, that that ring is what’s keeping his spirit here. I certainly _hope_ it is, anyway because we’ve got nothing _else_ to go on…”

“… And if it is,” the green-eyed man finished for him, “then it must be somewhere in that house, because there’s _something_ holding his ghost there...

We’ve just got to find it.”

It was already getting dark as they left the diner: winter being well on its way. They found somewhere to change from their suits into more comfortable clothes, before parking the Impala out of the way of the house so it wouldn’t be obvious that they were trespassing, slipped beneath the police tape taking their weapons bags and a full can of fuel in with them, and got to work in the house...

Or rather, Sam and Bobby had gotten to work because the both of them were equally worried about how long Dean had spent on his feet that day and he had refused point blank to let the younger of the two men bring his chair into the haunted home: “We’re supposed to be being _stealthy!_ Sneak in, sneak out: just like we’ve always done! What if someone comes and there’s a fucking _wheelchair_ in the hallway! How are we going to explain that?”

“No one’s going to come: Jodie’s told the family to stay away until her investigation is completed.” Bobby argued back.

“And _you_ need to _rest,_ master.” Sam was determined: “You’ve done too much today already. _We’ll_ look. You supervise.”

“Oh for…”

Moodily he had followed them upstairs, and sat on the dressing table chair to watch them as they all but took the master bedroom apart: trying to resist moving too much so as not to give away the fact that his back _was_ twinging… just a little… nothing really… but it had been doing so for a while…

Meanwhile the other two men had moved around just about all the furniture so they could pull back the carpet away from the edges of the room and check that nothing had been pushed beneath the skirting boards. They had even shone their flashlights through any gaps between the floorboards in case anything had dropped through… but found nothing.

“Ok.” Dean had had enough of watching. “This is going to take all night at this rate. It could be _anywhere_.”

“Are we sure nobody didn’t just find and take it?” Sam called from inside the walk-in closet: he was working his way around the small space, feeling around the edges of the carpet with his fingers.

“No, we’re not.” His master conceded. “But his bones are burnt, so his spirit’s trapped here by _something_. And that something must be here, otherwise Jackson wouldn’t be here…

He’d be _there!”_

“Can… can ghosts do that?”Just the thought made Sam anxious. “Can they move from the place where they… should be?”

“It they’re tied to an object, then they go wherever _it_ does.” Bobby clarified. “So Dean’s right: even if it _ain’t_ this ring that he’s tied to, there’s _something!_ ”

There was a momentary silence.

“Okay,” Dean eventually declared. “Com’on out, Sammy. The door would most likely have been shut and it would have been swept out by every one of the new owners since anyway. It ain’t _in_ there.” There was an answering grunt from the closet. Dean looked at the old man. “We have to make the choice. We either tear this place apart or we burn it to the ground: take your pick.”

“If we burn it, then the Aguilera’s lose everything.” Bobby quietly stated. “We couldn’t risk moving their belongings out: too many awkward questions would be asked.”

There was another silence.

From his hidey-hole, Sam felt the tension rise between the others as they thought through their decision. He sighed and knelt up on his heels ready to turn and come back into the main bedroom, twisting round as he began to stand and trying not to trip on any of the numerous pairs of shoes on the floor…

And realised as he did that he wasn’t alone in the small space.

Standing right behind him in the doorway between the closet and the master bedroom was a tall, gaunt, pale to the point of being white man whose eyes didn’t seem to contain eyeballs… there were just dark spaces where normally there should have been showing the life of a body… but who even so was somehow staring straight at the young man.

Until that moment, Sam hadn’t fully believed… but _now_ he did.

And he was terrified.

Even more so once he realised he was _trapped_.

“M… mas… master…?”

He could barely hear his own voice: he knew immediately that neither man through the doorway in the master bedroom would ever hear him…

But…

Even as Sam waited for the ghost to attack him, It crossed his mind that, actually, Robby Jackson seemed confused that he was _there_ : it was as if the ghost was as perplexed at _his_ presence as he was terrified by _its._

And the bewilderment  on the pale grey face only seemed to increase when Dean’s voice was heard from the main room: “Okay. So we keep that as a last resort. We give ourselves one night to find it… the ring or whatever, and if we can’t, then…”

“Agreed.” Bobby nodded. “We’ll start in the passageway next. That okay with you, boy?”

This last was called to Sam, who _tried_ to respond but…couldn’t…

The ghost of Robby Jackson turned back to look at him once more…no… he was staring into the corner of the closet… or seeming to… with sadness on his face. Sam couldn’t help himself from turning to follow where the ghost seemed to be looking, then he was nearly pissing his pants from fear as he realised what he had done.

With a deep breath, Sam forced himself to face the spirit… but to his tremendous relief, Jackson had vanished as abruptly if he had never even been there…

The young man was shaking as he finally inched carefully out of the closet, instinctively looking for his master and slightly ashamed of himself for being so terrified… “What… what if he comes back? The ghost?”

“Then you remember what I told you, Sam.” Bobby replied instantly without turning his head. “Swing with iron… the crowbars are perfect for that… shoot with the rock salt, and when we find the ring, if that’s what it is, douse the damn thing with gasoline and burn it! _Fast!_ ”

“Yes, but…”

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean had seen how pale the younger man had gone, and was on his feet approaching him. The young man felt tears prickle in his eyes as he was pulled into a quick hug, but then his master was releasing him again to try to give reassurance: “You worried about seeing him? We’ll be on our guard of course, but… well, there’s also a good chance that his spirit is… tied… somehow to repeating the original action that’s trapped him here.

What I’m trying to say, is that he killed one man and one woman in that order: that was the actual crime that was committed, and that’s what happened the other time’s as well. It might be that he’s sort of stuck on ‘repeat-mode’, and  because he already _got_ Mr Aguilera last night… his wife’s ‘lover’ as it were… he might not be looking to kill another man for a while… “

“Because he’ll be looking for his _wife’s_ substitute instead…” Sam nodded: that actually made a _lot_ of sense to him. “He’s looking to kill _her_ , and he doesn’t understand other men being here. He doesn’t know why _we’re_ here! Has that happened before? In your other cases, I mean?”

“A couple of times,” Dean was watching him carefully and frowning a little, but he refrained from commenting except to add: “But if _that’s_ not a good enough reason for you to cut off those long girly locks so he doesn’t come after you by mistake, then I don’t know _what_ is!”

Sam stuck his tongue out at him. Then tutted on realising that Dean had moved to pick up one of the crowbars.

He straightened up to find the old man was watching him intently as well: “What’cha think you’re doing, boy?”

“Helping getting this done, Bobby. It’s gonna take the _three_ of us…”

The green eyes were definitely flashing with mutiny. The other two men exchanged glances… and united without any need at all for spoken agreement: “Okay, Dean. But you need to take your meds first: it must be time for your next ones…”

“It is, indeed.” Sam was already fishing in his pocket for the container: he had sworn to himself that he was never going to go anywhere without them ever again and taking care of his master was _far_ more important than his own stupid childish terror… “But they work better taken with food. You _know_ they do…”

“Why don’t’cha go and see if there’s anything we can ‘borrow’ from the refrigerator, boy. We could _all_ do with bottles of something….”

“Then, once you’ve taken your medication and it’s begun to work, _then_ you can come and help us, master…”

“Yeah but…” Dean stared at them both: from the calm old man to the irate but worried face of his young lover with the crossed arms and general wide-legged stance who was so _not_ going to take any argument… and moodily conceded defeat. “Okay. I’ll go and make us all a drink and see if there’s anything we can eat and replace, and then we can _all_ have a break downstairs for ten minutes…”

“And keep your eyes open!” Bobby called after him as he stomped… or at least Dean _would_ have stomped if his back hadn’t been starting to seriously twinge again… damn them both for being right… off down the stairs, using his flashlight to show him the way through the now near gloom in the house..

As he descended, he was sure he heard Sam say solemnly to the old man: “Bobby, I need to tell you something…”

But by then Dean had reached the ground floor.

With a sigh, he stood at the bottom of the stairs and shone the light around. If Robby Jackson _had_ torn the ring off his wife’s dying body, where might he have thrown it?

 Although his intuition told him that it had happened upstairs in the original storm of rage that Jackson must have felt upon seeing his wife with another man: it just didn’t sit true with Dean that the man would have stooped over his wife’s dying body and _then_ taken the ring…

His thoughts were interrupted by the noise of an approaching engine noise outside…

“Shit! Guys! We’ve got company!”

Even as Dean was frantically looking around to make sure that they had left nothing of theirs downstairs, he could hear the other two men hastily doing the same upstairs and switching the main bedroom light off… luckily the room was at the back of the house overlooking the large garden, so hopefully it wouldn’t have been seen by whoever was arriving…

Dean retreated to the kitchen just as the front door opened…

And the main light was clicked on.

“Regina, I don’t like this. We shouldn’t _be_ here.”

“Oh, hush your mouth, Maggie. Isabel wants her blanket… although why you humour the child and let her _keep_ the disgusting old thing, I’ll _never_ know…”

“Yes, but... The sheriff told us to stay away from the house while those men finish their investigation…”

“ _Investigation?_ ” The disgust in the older woman’s voice was obvious. “Investigation, my _ass._ My poor boy’s _dead_ because he worked too hard trying to give you everything _you_ want. I hope you’re _satisfied_ , Maggie. I hold _you_ responsible…”

“Mama?” Dean felt his heart all but stop with horror as he heard the small frightened voice: they had brought the little _girl_ with them? “Mama, I don’t like it here. What if that man comes back again?”

“Oh for God’s sake, Isabel! Time to stop that nonsense! There is no man; no glowing fingers; no dark eyes! There’s no such _thing!_ Let’s just go and get your blanket, although why you still need that at _your_ age, I _don’t_ know…”

That was it. Dean was out from the kitchen and meeting the Aguilera family straight on, majorly startling them as he did and causing two loud squeals and one long scream. “Agent Page? What are _you_ doing here?

“My job!” Dean all but snapped at them. “And you all need to _go_. Now!”

He was already trying to usher the family out, reaching with his left hand for the little girl… who took hold of it without even a _glance_ at the puckered burnt skin on it… and was moving to take Maggie Aguilera’s arm, but that still left her mother-in-law loose…

… and _she_ was around Dean and moving up the stairs in the next instant. “We just need Isabel’s blanket! Then we’ll go!” She paused just as she got to the top of them. “I hate this house anyway. What a dump: why would anybody _ever_ want to live in this creepy old place?”

Regina turned to move towards her grand-daughter’s bedroom.

Only to stop in terror as a tall, thin, blood-drained-pale man in grey clothes abruptly materialised out of thin air in front of her: “You bitch!”

“I…a…a…a..a.aaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

Her hysterical scream was cut short as Robby Jackson was suddenly advancing on her, rage across his face and somehow, flaring through the deep dark nothing of his eye sockets as well: “I gave you _everything!_ I did everything for _you!_ And this is how you repay me? By sleeping with that piece of _garbage_ ex-boyfriend of yours? Even all your fancy toiletries couldn’t hide his stench in my house! I’ll _kill_ you!”

His hands were clawing for her neck. Regina couldn’t move; she couldn’t think; she couldn’t even seem to even _breathe_ : all she was able to do was stare at the spirit in horror…

Then there was a sudden loud explosion from somewhere below her, and the ghost suddenly screeched and vanished just as instantaneously as it had appeared, which broke the web of sheer terror that she was held in. Regina ran for her life back down the stairs, all but falling down the last six or seven steps as her ankle gave beneath her, and barely registering that Dean was standing protectively in front of her daughter-in-law and grandchild with his gun still smoking…

“Bobby! Sammy!” Even as he was snatching at the older woman and also pulling her behind him, he was shouting to the other two men: “Jackson’s here! Find that bloody ring! _Now!_

You three! Out of the door!”

But their way was already being blocked by the ghost as he abruptly re-appeared in front of the front door. “I’ll kill ya, you bitch!”

Again this was addressed to Regina, and he was charging towards her. Again Dean blasted him away with a couple of shots from his pistol before trying to open the front door to let the women out.

It wouldn’t budge.

It was sealed as firmly as someone had super-glued it into place.

As were the windows.

“Shit, he ain’t letting you go this time!”

“This time?” All three female faces were staring at him in shock.

“This time.” Dean told them. “He _thinks_ he’s killed the man he caught his wife in bed with fifty years ago: now he’s gonna want to kill his ‘wife’. That’s what he’s done twice before, but… hey… who knows _what’s_ going on in his head! Just… stay close to me, okay?”

Even as he was speaking, Dean was checking the amount of salt-rounds he had left. He had his usual handgun with him… just as he always did… but it was loaded with normal bullets.

Which were absolutely no use _whatsoever_ against a fucking _ghost_.

Besides his usual pistol, he had _this_ gun, which at least he _had_ had the sense to load with hand-made rock-salt bullets… of which he now had the grand total of only three left.

His weapons bag was upstairs in the bedroom where they had been working. Which meant all his weapons were upstairs. _And_ the rest of the salt-round ammunition.

It was all to be found at the top of the ghost-infested stairs.

 _Shit_.

“Master!” Sam had heard the shouts, and far more worryingly, the _gunshots_ downstairs and had come racing out of the bedroom, desperate to get to his master for protection…

… although he wasn’t quite sure which of them it was for…

“No! Get away from the top of the stairs, Sam!”

The young man spun round in terror… where was it, where was it?... and gaped as he found himself yet again looking at the ghost of the long-since deceased, and somehow still _surprised_ -looking Mr Jackson. Sam didn’t even have time to blink before the ghost had vanished again with the force of the rock-salt round hitting it from behind him… “ _Sammy!”_

“I’m fine, master, I’m fine.”

And indeed he was, as Bobby calmly stepped out from the master bedroom, shotgun in hand, walking towards him _and_ the stairwell: “You all okay down there, Dean?”

“Yeah.” The other glanced up at him and motioned to the two women and little girl with the gun: “It’s sealed the doors and windows shut so we’re stuck in here: we’ll be safer upstairs as a group. Cover us, Bobby: we’re coming up...”

“No!” The screams were unanimous, three-fold-force… and extremely loud and painful to his ears. “We’re not going up _there!_ ” “What _is_ that thing!” “Mama: I wanna go! I wanna _go!_ ”

Dean regarded the three of them with a sigh, but nodded and instead began to physically encourage them all towards the couch in the open plan house instead. “Help me push this against the wall, then. All of you get on it and keep close to each other. I’ll cover you: it’ll be fine…” he tried to sound reassuring. “Bobby? I can’t get the girls out, so we’ll sit tight down here. You just find that ring.”

“Okay. You holler if you need help. Com’on, boy,” the old man told the slave. “We’ve got work to do. So it was watching you in the closet?”

Sam hesitated momentarily: caught in the middle of desperation to go and be with his master, and equally _not_ to be anywhere that might involve seeing that… _thing_ … again. “Sam!” Bobby’s tone was authorative now: “ _Com’n!_ ”

The young man recognised the order. Recognised the sternness beneath the seeming calm… and obeyed instantly, trying to force himself to remain in control and _think_ … what was the question that had been asked?

Oh yes.

“It was…” he hardly recognised his own voice momentarily. It was his dull, living-dead slave voice again: he had all but forgotten how it sounded. “It was... behind me when I was in there. And it looked surprised at us all being there.”

“Perhaps you _were_ getting close,” the old man mused. “That’s our starting point, Sam.”

“But what if we don’t find it, Bobby?”

“Then we look everywhere else, Sam. Com’n, Dean needs us.”

Downstairs, the green-eyed man was still trying to calm the Aguilera’s down when he became aware of… and then he _knew_ what, as all of the females were suddenly screaming at something behind him. Immediately he was spinning around to face the ghost: gun in hand, ready to fire… but Robby Jackson had got wise this time.

He was standing much closer than Dean had expected him to be.

 _Much_ closer.

The pistol was knocked away from him before Dean could even pull the trigger. And then _he_ was being thrown physically across the room to hit a glass-fronted wooden cabinet on the other side: the glass shattering into shards and scattering everywhere, including all over the green-eyed man as he also hit the floor in a heap.

For one instant he lay still, dazed and helpless as Jackson seemed to stare down at him…

But then the ghost was turning away, his attention returning towards the screaming women… or rather … _Regina_. She backed away hysterically, hobbling on her injured ankle and pleading at him as he advanced: “I’ve killed your boyfriend, you _whore!_ Now I’m gonna get _you!_ ”

With a series of flickering materialisations, he was on the older lady before any of them had had a chance to move: immediately clamping one long almost talon-like hand tightly around her neck while the other began to glow at the fingertips… “How could you do it, Casey? I gave you everything: I would’ve given you _anything_ , and _still_ it wasn’t enough!”

Then the fingers were pressing against the screaming woman’s chest…

Upstairs, Sam and Bobby were getting cosy together squashed into the master bedroom’s walk-in closet.

“There ain’t nuttin’ here, boy.” The older man was staring around: they had frantically thrown everything back out of the small space and were both down on their knees feeling around the edges of the walls. “As Dean said, it would have been swept out numerous times anyway. There’s nothing here!”

Downstairs, Dean had managed to get somewhat shakily to his feet and was desperately looking for his gun. Seeing it on the floor where it had been knocked to, he snatched it up and fired at Jackson’s ghost, which once again screeched and disappeared, leaving Regina alone where he had been momentarily: her chest still glowing, standing unnaturally on her own feet as if being held up by some unseen force and yet at the same time… somehow completely unsupported...

Then she was collapsing gracelessly into a heap on the floor, gasping for breath as her heart pounded so hard inside her chest that she felt it would explode at any minute.

 “Nana!” Isabel shrieked and ran to the older woman’s side, followed almost immediately by her mother: “ _Nana!_ ”

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” Regina tried to stroke her grand-daughter’s face but her hands were shaking too much. “I sorry I didn’t listen…”

“Oh Nana…”

The sound of the child crying broke Dean’s own heart, but he couldn’t stop what he was doing. He had kicked one of the hard-backed chairs from the dining table set to pieces and was using the leg of it… or trying anyway… to smash through one of the windows. But it was as useless as if they had been made out of concrete: the wood splintered and cracked into pieces even as the glass remained intact. “Oh, _come_ on!”

He turned just in time to see Jackson’s ghost re-materialise and again advance on the prone woman. Maggie screamed and snatched for her daughter, hugging Isabel close to her and trying to force her to crawl away. The spirit let them without interest.

He already _had_ his target. The bitch was going to _pay_ for cheating on him.

Dean fired his last two bullets, but the ghost barely flickered away before he was re-appearing and advancing on Regina once more.

Desperately Dean looked round the room for something, _anything_ , he could use as a weapon. “Where’s a god-damned _poker_ when you need one…”

The pans! His flashlight had picked them out earlier when he had gone to hide from the Aguileras: there was a whole range of useful kitchen equipment tastefully and decoratively hanging from ceiling hooks in the kitchen, including a trio of cast-iron skillet pans. Dean had been lusting after a set of them for _years_.

He hurried to snatch them down, trying to ignore what was now far more than a niggle in his back…

Upstairs, Sam and Bobby were still desperate for inspiration.

“It can’t be in here, Sam.” Bobby was trying to think aloud. “It must be somewhere else. The door opens outwards for a start: the chance of the ring even landing _in_ here…”

“I’ve still got scars from rings being thrown at me.” Sam told him abruptly. “They bounce: they rebound. The door need only have been a little ajar. And as Dean said, it could have been swept out.

But… again…. Perhaps some people would simply sweep _in._ Just sweep everything in: hide the dirt, close the door and forget about it…

Literally sweep it under the carpet.

And he was looking down _there._ ”

The young man was already peeling back the now loose, thin carpet in the corner that he had indicated, exposing the rough wooden floorboards beneath… and the gap between them that a small item like a ring could have easily slipped through…

Sam didn’t even hesitate: he was racing back through to the bedroom to get a crowbar so he could lever up the rough boards and search beneath…

Regina Aguilera had never felt so terrified in her whole life as when she was staring into the face of the dark-eyed ghost that seemed to detest her so much. Desperately she shut her own eyes against the sight of the almost animalistic hatred on Robert Jackson’s face as he reached for her, his fingers glowing once more ready to cause such pain as she had never known before once again…

This was it. She was going to die.

Her breath faltered as she felt the ghost’s fingers brush against her chest again…

But then Jackson was flinching and staggering away from her once more as a frying pan was being hurled at him from across the room. And then Dean was advancing on him with the largest skillet in his hands, having to hold it with both, it was so heavy, but the threat of the cast-iron was at least forcing the spirit to back away.

Dean deliberately put himself between Jackson and the body of the now all but unconscious woman.

His back was now starting to seriously hurt: every step just then had been painful. Even _through_ the adrenalin. But at least he was still standing, so he was going to take that as a win… A seriously _incredible_ win, considering just a few short months ago he couldn’t walk…

But… actually… right now, the thought of being in the wheelchair was _really_ appealing. All he had to do was hold the ghost off long enough for Bobby and Sam to be done upstairs, and then he was going to sit down for a week!

Or better yet, _lie_ down… yeah, right at the moment the thought of lying down for a while was _good_ …

He was going to do _that_ for a week as well…

If Sammy didn’t kill him first.

By this time, the two men upstairs had just about all the floor boards in the corner of the closet pulled up in large rough sliver-covered hewn-wood pieces.

Bobby shone the flashlight into the dark, grubby, insect-dung covered recess beneath. “Anything?”

“Can’t see!”

Sam snatched the flashlight from him and all but climbed into the mould-smelling hole. “He was watching there. _It’s_ there. It would have been pushed to the back of the room with the rest of the dust bunnies as the floor was swept. _It_ would be filthy. It would have gone down the crack. It’s gold: it’s heavy; it would have fallen as far as it could fall. It’s there; it’s there; it’s there…” He was just about chanting to himself as he shone the light around…

His eyes caught a speck of dull… shining… _something_ …

Downstairs the ghost of Mr Robert Jackson was staring… or seemed to be staring at Dean with disbelief… ”I thought _he_ was her lover… the other one… in the bed. Who are you? Why are you _defending_ my wife when she…?

Was there more than him? Were there more than just… _him?_ ”

 _You_ must be her lover… as _well_.

How many has she had…?

How many _of_ you have lain with my wife… my Casey… in _my_ bed… and _laughed_ at me?”

“Only the one.” Dean told him, trying to keep his voice calm even with the hefty weight of the frying pan making his arms complain and tremble slightly, and his back now do _far_ more than just twinge... “Only the man you found with her that night. You killed him. You killed Casey.

Then you killed yourself.”

The spirit stared at him… “That’s impossible.”

You’re _dead_ , Mr Jackson.” Dean assured him. He tried to straighten up from his defensive stance, trying to reassure the… dead man… that he meant him no harm… “You turned your gun on yourself that night.

But you’ve killed others after your death. Innocent people, Mr Jackson. And they weren’t sleeping with your wife: they didn’t even _know_ who she was. They only wanted to make your house their home.

The other men and women were both married couples: the first ones had children. And the man you killed last night was this lady’s son,” indicating Regina, “and this lady’s husband,” indicating Maggie, “and this child’s _father_.

Your wife is _dead_ , Mr Jackson. You had your revenge. A long time ago.

It’s time for you to stop. Please, Mr Jackson… Robby… It’s time for you to go.”

The pan was getting really heavy: Dean’s arms were _killing_ him now. Seriously, how did people _cook_ with a pan like that? And it didn’t even have any food in it!

The ghost watched him start to tremble a little with the effort of holding it in his outstretched hands… and mistook why he was shaking…

“You’re _lying_ …”

Sam couldn’t quite reach the shiny thing that had fallen to get itself jammed beneath the floor in the joints: not even with _his_ long arms. He willed his limbs to stretch that little bit more, to extend enough even if all his joints never went back into shape. His master was downstairs where gunshots and screams and shouts were coming from…

Sam should have been down there beside him: he should have gone to help Dean. He shouldn’t have been so afraid of the ghost: even if he was, he should have been braver…

He should have gone to his master because his master _needed_ him.

Dean was going to _kill_ him.

It was with tears of relief that the very, very, _very_ tips of his fingers closed on the sticky, grimy, hard lump of nothing that didn’t look like anything that wasn’t disgusting. But if there was _one_ thing that the slave was used to, it was the _disgusting_.

“Here!” And somehow, he was inching himself back again from his precarious position to hand the thing to Bobby. “Is it?”

 Downstairs, Dean desperately tried to keep hold of the heavy skillet as the ghost turned on him and attacked. ‘At least I’ve got its attention on _me_ ’, he thought, as he was once slammed against walls and into the dining table, knocking the breath almost entirely out of his lungs.

For _sure_ , he had Robby Jackson’s attention! “ _You’ve_ been with my wife as well! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill _all_ of you! Playing me for such a fool!

A goddamned _fool!_ ”

The spirit was punching Dean with every other word.

Dean was so stunned by now that he was hardly aware of the spirit wrapping one thin, strong  hand around his throat… not until he was being physically dragged across the room back towards where Regina was lying, losing hold of the pan as he struggled hopelessly with both hands to try _somehow_ to break the grip and to get air back in his lungs. But his grappling was useless against the dead man’s hand.

Regina had opened her eyes but she wished she hadn’t: she shook with pure terror as the deathly white phantom advanced on her:

“How many men did you make fools of me with, Casey? How many?”

“I… I didn’t!” She gasped. “Please believe me: it wasn’t me.”

Jackson bent over the woman, still with Dean’s throat in a death grip with one hand, and reached for her with the other… “I won’t make you watch this one die first, my darling: I won’t put you through losing another one. I loved you so _much_ …” The fingers glowed and pressed against her chest. Her heart began to race again so that she couldn’t breathe… couldn’t _breathe_ …

Just as black spots began to cover Dean’s vision, he felt Regina Aguilera’s hand grip his with her last bit of strength… “I’m so sorry: you _told_ me not to come back… You tried so hard… Thank you…

… thank you…”

All he could do was squeeze her hand in return as he felt himself falling into darkness…

Upstairs, Sam was trying to un-squish himself from the under floor recess they had brutally created in the bedroom closet. But his bumps and bruises and discomfort didn’t matter at all: all that mattered was the shining ring that Bobby was now pouring gasoline somewhat liberally over in the middle of the bedroom.

He had only paused to wipe the worst of the sticky, greasy grime off enough to see the definite shape and glimmer: “That’s it! You found it, boy: you found it!”

Then he was dropping his lighter on to the puddled mess on the floor and it was all setting alight.

From downstairs they could still hear screams: one unnatural as a long-dead human being finally gave up the ghost… pun fully intended… and female ones of sheer, unadulterated terror.

“Go’on git downstairs.” Bobby ordered him. “Check they’re okay. I’ll stay’n’watch this for a moment so we _don’t_ burn the house down!”

Sam didn’t need telling twice. He was out of the bedroom and racing down the stairs, almost slipping down them in his haste, uncaring of how filthy he was…

His feet came to a screeching halt at the foot of them as he saw…

They were all in a huddle.

His master, the two women, and the little girl.

Dean was kneeling with his arms around Regina: still panting to catch his breath, his face deathly white, vicious hand-shaped bruises already blooming around his neck, his eyes filled with tears…

The child was laying half across the woman in his lap, sobbing for all she was worth. With her mother behind her, rubbing her shoulders and making shushing noises… but Maggie was looking at his master and their eyes were meeting with the deep connection formed by witnessing something terrible together…

And as for Regina Aguilera, she just lay in Dean’s arm with eyes open but not seeing anything. Her heart had taken all it could take… and her soul was already on its way to be reunited with her son’s…

The ghost of Robby Jackson had managed to claim one last victim.

Now it was two days later. And Sam was sat despondently at Bobby’s kitchen table.

Bobby had contacted the College to tell them that Dean wasn’t going to be in for a couple of days because his back was playing up, but ‘you can go in, Sam. Just because _he’s_ laid up doesn’t mean _you_ have to be.’

No, Sam couldn’t, because he wasn’t going _anywhere_ without his master. He should have been with him in that house, right by his side facing that ghost. When he had _seen_ the bruises all over the older man as he had undressed him that night to put him into their bed…

Dean had slept the entire morning away, before awakening hurting _everywhere_. He had insisted on coming carefully down the stairs, even though for the rest of the day he had hardly moved from a prone position on the couch.

And Sam had hardly been able to bear to look at him, because he knew his master wasn’t angry but he should be. He _should_ be.

Sam had let him down. And it didn’t matter how many times Dean had told him he hadn’t… Sam knew he had let him down.

He should have mentioned seeing the ghost straight away: he should have torn into that closet immediately with the crowbars. They should have burnt the house to the ground.

Then Dean wouldn’t have got so hurt.

 And Mrs Aguilera would still be alive.

It was his fault.

Now he was sitting with his laptop at Bobby’s kitchen table, trying and failing to concentrate on the screen .

But he wasn’t doing his school work.

No, Sam was researching everything Supernatural that he could _think_ of and making notes for himself.

He was determined: he was _determined_ , that, should such a situation ever arise again, he would be ready. He would know everything there was to know about anything that they might be facing. And he would be either facing it beside his master… or preferably, he would have his larger body in _between_ his master and the whatever-it-was, because he couldn’t _live_ with seeing Dean get hurt like that again.

Sam couldn’t live with ever again seeing his master’s shoulders shake with silent tears because, despite his best efforts, he just hadn’t been able to save Regina Aguilera.

If only Sam had acted faster upstairs in the bedroom. If only he had…

He was useless.

“Sam. If you don’t stop beating yourself up, I’m gonna get really _cross._ ”

The young man started: he had been so engrossed in his thoughts rather than the notes he had set himself to take, that he hadn’t heard Dean approaching him.

His master had left Bobby to sort out the situation and the two surviving Aguilera family members with a simple: “I’m gonna have to lie down.”

The old man had immediately understood and was already calling Jodie for assistance when Dean had left the wrecked house without a single glance back, to instead make his way to the Impala with the sole intention of climbing into the rear seat and stretching out as much as he could with relief…

 _Fuck_ , but his back hurt now…

In fact, _all_ of him hurt.

But.

He was still standing up, albeit painfully at the moment, and he was still walking, albeit painfully at the moment, and the ghost had been taken care of…

So Dean, out of life-enforced habit, would take as much as he could as a win.

He was sound asleep in the rear of the car by the time Bobby allowed the slave to go and join him: “Give him some space for a while, boy...”

On finding his master crashed out, the young man had simply climbed into the back of the Impala with him, immediately enfolding Dean in his arms, the older man snuggling comfortably into the accustomed embrace without stirring at all, and held him as close and as tight as he could…

But Sam couldn’t sleep. Nor had he since.

Not with the dead woman’s eyes staring sightlessly but accusingly at him in his dreams.

Not with Isabel’s sobs echoing in his ears every time he tried to close his eyes.

Not with the bruises that all but covered Dean’s entire body that taunted him with his failure to protect his master every time he saw them: even though when the man had woken again the next day, he had said he was alright except for just being sore all over…

“ _Sam!_ ”

And Dean was carefully getting down to his knees one leg at a time, beside the wooden chair that the younger man was sitting on, so that he could sit up on his heels and pull the other across enough to get his arms around him: “It’s alright, Sammy. It’s okay to grieve for the ones we couldn’t save. We did our best: but sometimes it just ain’t enough.

It just ain’t _enough._ ”

He was rubbing Sam’s back, and trying to soothe the tears away. The young man snuffled and suddenly realised how hard he _was_ crying. Indeed, he had been doing for a long while.

“How do you do it, Dean?” The words burst out of him as large, shoulder-wracked sobs. “How do you deal with the fact that you let people die because you just weren’t good enough to save them?”

“Now you listen to _me_.” And the older man was altering the position of his hands so they were now holding around each of Sam’s elbows… and shaking him a little to get his attention. “And you listen _good_.

That was _her_ choice to return to that house. _Hers_.

She was warned not to: hell, she was _told_ not to. But Mrs Aguilera did anyway, and she put her daughter-in-law and her grand-daughter at risk as she did. That’s fact.

And that’s not my fault or Bobby’s fault, and it sure as hell ain’t _your_ fault, Sam, so don’t even go there.

“We can’t. Save. Everyone.”

And Dean was leaning over to put his arms back around the younger man, pulling him closer against his own chest as he felt the tension and sadness still coursing through Sam’s body. “I wish we _could_. But… things happen.

Sometimes we make mistakes, yes, but sometimes it all goes perfect and there’s _still_ that one thing that we could never have foreseen…

Sometimes, the monsters simply get lucky.

Sometimes we’ve simply got to _choose_ … Who gets saved? Who gets left to fend for themselves, because no matter how much we try, it’s never quite enough?

That’s just the way it goes, Sammy.

And you either learn to deal with it… accept that you tried your damnedest but this time it just wasn’t good enough…

… Or you let the guilt eat you up and spit you out.”

“We should have saved…” The tears were coming again, spilling out of Sam’s eyes like molten liquid: he couldn’t contain them. If he could have just found that ring earlier. If they had just been that _minute_ earlier…

He had said that out loud.

“You know the worst thing?” His master’s calm voice cut through his thoughts. “The worst thing is trying to keep calm and doing what needs to be done, when you know that someone else is in trouble.

If you had come down those stairs: you’d have been a target, same as me. Jackson was hurting. I couldn’t get him to see, because he just didn’t _want_ to see. The only way to stop him, was to concentrate on finding what was holding him here, and that ain’t easy.

To try and just focus on what needs to be done, when you knew… or rather, didn’t know what was going on, but you knew it wasn’t good… but you did it, Sam. You kept your head and you found that ring. Bobby told me how _determined_ you were.

It was _you_ who stopped Robby Jackson. You saved Maggie. You saved Isabel. And you saved _me_. So, don’t you worry, Sammy: you did good. _Really_ good.

“I’m so, so proud of you.”

The young man stared at him: his face a blotchy mass of red where he had rubbed at his eyes, and smeared tears, and snot. Dean decided it was definitely time to reach for his pocket tissues…

Sam took one and started to try and wipe his face in silence.

But he had to ask…”Has your whole life been like this? Right from when your mom died? How do you _deal_ with that, Dean? How do you even…” His words tailed off. Sam wasn’t even sure what he was trying to say, but… “The things you’ve seen: the things you’ve had to do… _How…?”_

The older man considered…. But in the end, all he could say was… “You just _do,_ Sam.”

The slave stared at him, trying to understand.

Dean tried to explain again. “There’s a whole world of frightening things out there, Sammy, and most people don’t know about it and that’s _good_. That’s good, Sam, because they don’t _want_ to have to know…”

He shrugged: “Someone’s got to protect them. Someone’s got to stand up for them.”

“But why _you_ , Dean?” The young man burst out suddenly. “Why you: why Bobby? _Why?_ ”

“Because _somebody_ has to.” Dean met his eyes calmly. “Otherwise, the monsters win.”

“But what if you get killed doing it?” It was spoken in barely more than a whisper, but Dean could hear the pain behind it.

“I will be one day,” He didn’t want to leave Sam with any illusions about _that_. “But _I_ know that I’ve saved a lot of people by doing this, _way_ more than I _couldn’t_ save. I’ve made a difference, Sammy: I know that sounds trite, but I _have_.

 And when my time comes, then I know… I _hope_ … that I’ll go down _trying_.”

“Just _stop_.” Sam ordered him suddenly. “Stop doing it! Stop _chasing_ them! Stay safe: you’ve _earned_ that, master!”

But his sudden desperate pleas were met with a slight but sad smile that seemed to be almost asking for understanding… “Sammy…What happens the _next_ time we hear of strange deaths… and a little girl being helpless against something _we_ know is there but nobody else does…? What do we do _then_ , Sam?”

There was a silence while they just stared into each other’s eyes: calm green meeting tearful hazel… but then Sam was nodding and looking down at his master’s knees. “We’d have to try to save her.”

“That’s what we do.” Dean stated. “Well. That’s what _I_ do… you don’t have to. I should never have let you come…”

“You try _stopping_ me, master.” And the young man was looking straight at him again, but this time with defiance and more than a little spark of anger: “You just _try_ and leave me behind…”

Dean’s eyes sparkled: “Well, _okay_.” He leant forward enough to touch his lips to Sam’s… but, just as the younger man was starting to get really interested, he leant back on his heels again.

“ _While_ I’m down here…” Dean fumbled in his jacket pocket and produced a small paper bag that rustled when it pulled it out. Sam’s brows furrowed together in confusion as he watched: what was the older man doing?

“I was going to wait to give you this at Thanksgiving…” For some reason, Dean had now gone bright red in the face, and he couldn’t seem to meet the younger man’s eyes. “Or perhaps…or not… perhaps I should wait… I mean… I wanted… Although probably you _wouIdn’t_ …

This was a bad idea.”

He began to try to get up, wincing a little at both his back _and_ his knees now, and hating that he had to lean on the table to do so. But Sam twisted in the chair and leant forward to this time put _his_ arms around _Dean’s_ as if he were going to help him… but then tightened them a little to show his understanding and support: “Master?” He whispered. “What is it you’re trying to say? What’s in the bag? _Please_ tell me.”

Dean paused. And took a deep breath, settling back onto his heels but still managing somehow to lean up close enough to remain in contact with the body of the younger man. “If I could, I’d free you, Sammy. I would have right from the start if I could have afforded to do so: you _know_ I would have.

I’d give _anything_ to make you happy.

But I l… lo… love you, Sammy. I really do. I never want to be without you. I’d ask you to marry me: I _want_ to marry you. I never thought I’d ever feel that about a _nyone_ …” his complexion was now crimson right up to the tips of his ears: Sam _squeaked_ with surprise, “… but I’m not sure if that’s allowed… as you’re a slave, I mean… and you probably wouldn’t want to anyway… you probably wouldn’t even want to _be_ here if you didn’t have to….”

“ _Yes!_ ”

“Yes?”

But his surprise, and relief, were buried beneath the young man’s mouth as Sam was abruptly launching himself right off the seat to also join him on the floor, kneeling astride his master’s thighs and nearly knocking the older man over backwards with the passion behind the kiss: “Yes! I’d _marry_ you! I love you too! _So_ much! I never want to leave you, mas… Dean. I’d follow you anywhere. I’ll fight _monsters_ with you anywhere. And even if I was free, I’d still want to wear your collar: it makes me feel good to show everyone I’m yours…”

That had caught Dean’s attention and he suddenly visibly relaxed, parting his lips to let the young man’s tongue plunder between them momentarily, before trying to pull his mouth away enough to speak again.

The bag rustled again as he raised it enough between them to attract the slave’s attention to it: “That means a lot to hear you say that… I was worried you’d hate this… I mean, you still might, but...”

Sam waited. .Still straddling Dean’s legs where they both knelt and with his long arms holding the older man tightly and he was _never_ going to let go, but he waited. As happy now as he had been miserable just moments before.

“I mean... Fuck, I’m bad at this… I thought about getting you a ring… to do this properly… But…

I’ve got my mom’s _and_ dad’s rings now. But. When it comes down to it, my mom’s only really a terrible memory and a dream that probably wasn’t even _close_ to being real.

And my dad…? Well, he was just _lots_ of terrible memories.

And to be honest, this the last couple of days? I really ain’t keen on rings, Sammy.

But then I saw these,” He indicated the small bag and finally moved to take one of the contents out: “They seemed more like you’n’me, you know?”

He handed something to Sam, who took it with bewilderment…

At first glance, it looked like the green slave collar that matched the hue of Dean’s eyes so well, and turned him on so much when he dared to ask his master to wear it, but it was much smaller in circumference. It would only fit a child’s neck… or a…

“I can’t wear the neck collar when we’re outside in public.” And the older man was taking it back to undo the straps. “If people thought _I_ was a slave, then they might start asking questions, and I’ve got no actual real paperwork to prove I’m not, and God _knows_ what would happen…

But, when I was picking up that leash you were hoping for, it came to me that I _could_ wear a wrist-cuff that matched it. And it wouldn’t matter if I wore it when we’re out, everyone else will just see it as a decorative braid-type bracelet, but you and _I_ would know what it really meant. I‘m _yours_ , Sam: I _want_ to be yours.

I have right from the start.

If that’s okay?”

And he was holding his right hand up, offering it to the young man so that he could fasten the new cuff around his master’s wrist… if he wanted to.

 _Fuck_ yes, Sam wanted to! “It’s even got a little lock!”

“ _You’ll_ have the key, Sam. And only _ever_ you.”

“I _love_ it.” The young man was already securing the band around Dean’s wrist and admiring the colour against the freckled skin. “Does it match the collar?” He worried suddenly. “It seems a slightly darker green…”

“I got a new one to make sure.” And the older man was rustling inside the bag once more and producing a brand new and exactly matching spring-forest green collar… _and_ a leash, all wrapped up tightly around itself and ready to be attached. “I got Sandy to measure me properly. She fucking couldn’t help from _smirking,_ the bitch, but has promised not to say anything to anyone…”

“Put this on.” Sam ordered him. “Right _now_.”

“Yes, master.” Dean whispered to him as the slave also fastened the new neck collar, careful not to fasten it so tight as to hurt the still painful-looking bruises. His breath faltered a little at the sight of the intensity of dark lust in Sam’s eyes and opening mouth as the younger man took in those words. He hurried to finish emptying the small bag before he found himself (he hoped) being picked up bodily and taken upstairs to their bedroom…

“I got these for you as well. I thought you might like…”

And there was _another_ new collar and matching wrist band, but no leash, both made from the dark brown that he loved seeing his Sammy wearing, but with a small strip of the same green as Dean’s woven through the centre of each of them, both highlighted by and emphasising the rich deep colour of the more dominant in hue, natural leather that surrounded it…

Sam reached for them almost reverently: “Are these for me? I _love_ them.”

“Are they okay?”

But his slight nervousness was once again being kissed away: “They’re _perfect._ ” Sam’s hands began to explore his master’s torso even as his mood finally lightened and his eyes twinkled with mischievous lust. “I’m going to have to think of a good way to say thank you… over many, _many_ nights…”

“Oh God…” And Dean was tilting his head up to meet Sam’s mouth with his own as the young man bent over him. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, I like the sound of it… Just be careful of my bruises…”

“You’ll like it, master.” The seductive whisper against his mouth went straight to his groin. “I _promise_.”

“You two idgits want to get this out of my face and let me into my own kitchen?”

Sam flinched and went to move from his position astride his master’s lap, but Dean held him down momentarily: “Caught by the cock-blocker,” he murmured quietly, and grinned as the younger man couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “Sorry Bobby,” and this time he was allowing the slave to stand up, “Shit, I think my legs have gone to sleep…”

“Here, I’ll help.”

 And Sam was assisting him up, wincing slightly in sympathy as the older man’s eyes widened with sudden pain once his knees unfolded: “Fuck. Pins and needles! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He began to stamp around the kitchen, his eyes watering, trying to control the sudden surge of feeling back through his legs that was uncomfortable enough to completely overpower the previous minute’s lust: “I’m gonna take this outside to walk off a minute…” And with that Dean was limping uncomfortably out of the back door.

“Don’t’cha even _think_ about going after him until you’ve tidied this all up. And what do you two jack-asses want for your supper…?”

Even as Sam hurried to obey, clearing the laptop and his notes from the kitchen table ready to help set it for a meal instead, he could see Dean through the grimy kitchen window: standing outside in the yard, and leaning over to try to rub some life back into his legs.

Feeling the young man’s eyes on him, he straightened up and met Sam’s with his own through the smeared glass, along with an open, easy, sexy smile that couldn’t hide any of the raw strength of his overwhelming love. The slave’s breath caught in his throat… and he was returning the smile just as intensely…

It stayed on his face even as he packed his books away.

And Sam couldn’t help but feel that _nothing_ could ever drive it away.

Because Dean loved him.

Somehow, despite everything he had been through, Sam had found this wonderful, amazing, incredible man who _loved_ him.

Even as he put the laptop away in the living room, he was wondering: could slaves get married? Was such a thing possible? And if so, was it possible to marry a free man? He would have a look after their meal and find out. Perhaps in Las Vegas: that place seemed to have their own rules for things? He would so _love_ to marry Dean.

He’d do it tomorrow if he could.

Hell, Sam would marry Dean right _now_ if he could!

But even if he couldn’t… he was going to be by his master’s… his lover’s… side every single minute because that was where he _wanted_ to be. No matter what, no matter where: they were going to be together.

For the first time in his life, Sam found himself looking forward to the future.

Because he knew that Dean would be right by _his_ side to face it with him, and there wasn’t a single _thing_ that they wouldn’t be able to deal with together.

It was going to be wonderful.

He was _sure_ of it.

 


End file.
